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THE   PLATED   CITY 


THE  PLATED  CITY 


BY 


BLISS    PERRY 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE,"  "  SALEM  KITTREDGE 
AND  OTHER  STORIES,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1895 


COPYRIGHT,   1895,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


2072234 


THE  PLATED  CITY 


"  ONE  strike  !  " 

A  murmur  of  discontent  ran  along  the  open 
stands  on  either  side  of  the  Bartonvale  ball 
grounds,  and  even  in  the  grand  stand,  where  the 
umpire's  decisions  were  usually  taken  philosophi 
cally,  there  was  a  decided  shrugging  of  shoulders. 
In  one  of  the  directors'  chairs,  exactly  behind  the 
catcher,  sat  a  young  woman  who  was  determined 
to  know  all  about  the  game. 

"  Why,  he  didn't  strike  at  all  I "  she  exclaimed. 
"  He  didn't  move.  I  was  looking  at  him  all  the 
time." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  my  dear," 
said  the  elderly  gentleman  at  her  right,  taking 
off  his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  and  mopping  his 
forehead  patiently.  "You'll  have  to  ask  Mr. 
Kennedy." 

Craig  Kennedy  smiled,  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  pitcher.  "  You  are  quite  right,  Sally. 
He  didn't  move  ;  the  strike  was  called  on  him. 
It  was  wide  of  the  plate,  though.  Look  out  now ; 
here  it  comes  again  ;  watch  it ;  watch  it !  " 
B  l 


2  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Two  strikes  !  " 

The  umpire's  voice  was  dispassionate,  but  he 
gave  a  nervous  hitch  to  his  trousers,  and  bent 
lower  than  ever  behind  the  catcher's  shoulder,  in 
line  with  the  ball,  while  a  series  of  commiserat 
ing  epithets  was  launched  at  him  from  the  open 
stands.  It  was  the  favorite  ball-player  of  Barton- 
vale  who  was  being  called  out  on  strikes. 

"That  last  one  was  fair  enough,"  explained 
Kennedy  to  Miss  Thayer.  "Didn't  you  see  the 
ball  curve  across  the  outside  corner  of  the  plate  ?  " 

"No,  I  didn't,  to  be  honest.  All  I  could  see 
was  just  a  sort  of  gray  streak.  That  poor  umpire  ! 
Think  of  having  to  make  up  your  mind  instantly, 
without  any  deliberation,  you  see,  and  then  to 
have  all  those  horrid  mill  hands  over  there  dis 
satisfied  with  everything.  I  should  think  it  would 
be  dreadful." 

"  It's  rather  an  easy  way  of  earning  ten  dollars, 
nevertheless." 

"  Ten  dollars  ?  "  interrupted  the  elderly  gentle 
man,  incredulously.  "  Is  that  fat  fellow  paid  ten 
dollars  for  dodging  around  down  there  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Dr.  Atwood,"  laughed  Kennedy, 
and  then'  some  one  touched  his  shoulder  from 
behind  and  asked,  "  How's  it  going,  Mr.  Ken 
nedy?  I've  just  come." 

"  New  Havens  five,  Bartonvales  four ;  last  of 
the  fifth,  two  out,  a  man  on  second,  and  Tom 
Beaulieu  at  the  bat,  with  two  strikes  called." 


THE  PLATED   CITY  3 

Kennedy  did  not  look  around  as  he  answered, 
being  engaged  in  watching  a  couple  of  vicious 
throws  to  second  by  the  New  Haven  pitcher,  in 
the  hope  of  catching  the  runner  napping. 

Once  more  the  pitcher  twisted  himself  cun 
ningly  and  delivered  the  ball,  but  it  came  straight 
for  the  head  of  the  batter,  who  ducked  so  cleverly 
as  to  win  the  approbation  of  the  crowd. 

"  One  ball !  ft 

"  Two  balls  !  "  The  umpire's  voice  was  respect 
fully  positive. 

"  Three  balls  !  "  The  pitcher  was  growing  ner 
vous,  and  the  smiling  black  eyes  of  the  batter 
watched  every  movement  of  his  fingers  as  he 
curled  them  around  the  ball.  There  was  a  hush 
of  excitement  over  the  field,  and  even  the  Italian 
peanut  vender  in  the  grand  stand  stopped  to  look. 

"Watch  it  now,  Sally,"  whispered  Kennedy 
under  his  breath.  "All  depends  011  this  ball. 
It  has  to  be  either  three  strikes  or  four  balls,  you 
know."  The  girl  nodded,  straining  her  eyes 
through  the  wire  screen  that  guarded  the  centre 
of  the  grand  stand. 

"  I'd  give  five  dollars,"  muttered  an  excited 
director  behind  her,  "to  see  Tom  Beaulieu — " 

But  before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  he 
saw  what  he  desired :  saw  the  ball  shoot  in  over 
the  plate  and  the  statue-like  batsman  swing  for 
ward  quick  as  lightning,  with  a  stroke  like  an 
axeman's,  clean  and  hard.  The  dry  sharp  ring 


4  THE  PLATED   CITY 

of  the  ash  was  swallowed  up  by  a  roar  of  voices,  as 
half  the  spectators  sprang  to  their  feet  to  watch  the 
ball  on  its  long,  low  flight  down  the  field.  The 
grand  stand  was  full  of  clapping  hands  and  stamp 
ing  feet  and  cheers. 

"  Where  is  it,  Craig  ?  "  cried  Miss  Thayer  in  dis 
appointment.  "  I  couldn't  see  the  ball  at .  all. 
Oh,  just  see  that  man  run  !  " 

For  answer  he  caught  her  by  the  wrist,  and 
made  her  look  along  the  line  of  his  outstretched 
arm.  "  Don't  you  see,"  he  cried,  his  face  almost 
against  hers,  so  deafening  was  the  noise  all  about 
them,  "  away  out  there  in  left  field  ?  He's  hard 
after  it ;  now  he's  stooping  to  pick  it  up.  See  ? 
Watch  close  now,  and  we'll  get  some  pretty  field 
ing.  Just  notice  where  their  short-stop  is,  clear 
out  in  left ;  don't  you  see  ?  " 

And  a  pretty  piece  of  ball-playing  it  was,  to 
which  the  excited  young  fellow  was  calling  her 
attention.  The  left-fielder,  overtaking  the  rolling 
ball  away  over  by  the  race  track,  lined  it  in  to  the 
short-stop,  who  was  half-way  down  the  field,  and 
the  latter,  whirling  on  his  heels,  threw  it  straight 
for  the  hands  of  the  big  third- baseman,  who  stood 
towering  above  his  bag.  It  seemed  for  a  moment 
as  if  the  runner,  well  past  second  and  trying  des 
perately  for  third,  were  sure  to  be  cut  off,  but 
when  still  a  dozen  feet  away,  he  threw  himself  head 
foremost  in  a  wriggling  dive,  and  just  as  the  third- 
baseman,  with  a  single  savage  motion,  caught  and 


THE  PLATED   CITT  5 

swept  the  ball  down  upon  him,  the  fingers  of  the 
runner  were  resting  quietly  upon  the  corner  of 
the  bag.  There  was  another  round  of  cheers  from 
the  grand  stand  and  a  scattering  volley  of  de 
lighted  ejaculations  from  the  "bleachers." 

"  Tom  knows  where  that  base  is  !  " 

"  Golly,  what  a  slide  ! " 

"  Five  And  ! !  " 

The  runner  jumped  to  his  feet,  with  a  broad 
grin  on  his  swarthy  face,  and  began  to  brush  the 
dust  from  his  stomach  and  knees. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Tom  Beaulieu?" 
shouted  an  enthusiast  from  one  side  of  the  field, 
and  from  hundreds  of  voices  came  the  quick  cho 
rus  of  response  :  "  He's  —  all  —  right !  "  and  then 
the  umpire  ordered  the  next  man  to  the  bat, 
while  the  reporters  engaged  themselves  with  not 
ing,  in  the  metaphorical  dialect  dear  to  readers  of 
the  sporting  column,  the  fact  that  Beaulieu  had 
made  a  drive  to  left-centre  for  three  bases  and  had 
tied  the  score. 

That  summer,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  the 
Plated  City  had  a  ball  team  that  was  making 
money  for  the  directors,  and  steadily  tightening 
its  hold  upon  the  championship  of  Connecticut. 
Every  mill  and  foundry  and  silver  plate  shop  in 
town  had  agreed  to  shut  down  at  three  o'clock  for 
the  Saturday  games  during  July  and  August.  To 
this  end  skilful  pressure  had  been  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  owners  by  the  young  business  men  who 


6  THE  PLATED   CITY 

were  backing  the  team.  Dr.  Atwood,  president 
and  chief  stockholder  of  the  largest  plate  works 
in  Bartonvale,  had  been  the  last  one  to  hold  out 
against  the  reduction  of  hours,  and  it  was  the  gen 
eral  opinion  upon  Main  Street  that  nobody  except 
Craig  Kennedy  could  have  talked  the  "  old  man  " 
around.  Kennedy  himself  was  immensely  proud 
of  his  diplomacy.  He  had  followed  up  his 
victory  by  dragging  Dr.  Atwood  to  this  game 
with  the  New  Havens,  and  giving  him  by  way  of 
compensation  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  Sally 
Thayer.  But  Miss  Thayer  was  too  much  inter 
ested  in  the  game  to  pay  much  attention  to  the 
Doctor.  During  the  first  five  innings  he  amused 
himself  by  looking  around  the  grand  stand  and 
marvelling  that  any  people  from  the  Hill  should 
drive  down  to  these  hot  flats  below  the  town,  and 
sit  on  dirty  benches,  applauding  a  professional  ball 
nine.  Why  did  they  not  stick  to  tennis,  which 
had  been  the  rage  among  the  Hill  people  the  last 
summer,  or  croquet,  which  had  absorbed  their  in 
terest  not  many  seasons  before  ?  Then  he  began 
to  compute  the  number  of  people  on  the  open 
stands,  and  to  determine  how  many  dollars  of  ex 
penditure,  at  twenty -five  cents  a  person,  this  game 
represented.  And  how  little  that  Avas,  after  all, 
compared  with  the  potential  earnings  of  say  fifteen 
hundred  able-bodied  operatives  between  the  hours 
of  three  and  six  on  all  the  Saturday  afternoons  of 
July  and  August !  The  more  he  calculated,  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  1 

more  irritated  he  grew  at  the  imbecility  of  the 
spectacle,  and  at  the  economic  waste  involved. 
More  than  once  he  turned  impatiently  upon  Ken 
nedy,  to  rebuke  him  for  having  inveigled  him  into 
connivance  with  the  folly  of  it  all ;  but  Miss 
Thayer  was  invariably  asking  Kennedy  a  question, 
and  the  Doctor  had  not  the  heart  to  intrude  his 
grumpy  mathematics  upon  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
young  people.  Then  came  Tom  Beaulieu's  great 
hit,  and  in  spite  of  the  old  gentleman's  prejudices, 
he  found  himself  guilty  of  a  sort  of  interest  in  the 
situation. 

"  It's  just  even  now,  is  it  ?  "  he  inquired  of  Craig 
a  moment  later,  as  the  Plated  City  batter  fouled 
out,  and  the  New  Havens  came  trotting  in  from 
the  field. 

"  Five  to  five,"  said  Kennedy,  contentedly  turn 
ing  his  handsome  face  to  the  Doctor.  "  Didn't  I 
tell  you  there  was  nothing  like  a  good  game  of 
ball?" 

Dr.  Atwood  grunted  incredulously,  and  his  keen 
little  eyes  began  to  sparkle  with  controversial  fire. 
"  Young  man,  have  you  ever  stopped  to  consider 
the  amount  of  money  the  laboring  men  up  and 
down  this  Mattawanset  Valley  throw  away  every 
week?" 

But  Sally  had  come  out  for  a  good  time,  and  did 
not  propose  to  have  it  spoiled  by  a  set  argument. 

"  Now,  Dr.  Atwood,"  she  remonstrated,  "  I  have 
heard  you  and  Mr.  Kennedy  argue  once  before, 


8  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  you  got  the  better  of  him.  It  left  him 
very  cross  ;  didn't  it,  Craig  ?  He's  certainly  good- 
natured  to-day,  and  I  want  him  to  keep  so.  Be 
sides,  I  must  have  him  tell  me  ever  so  much  more 
about  the  game.  It's  just  splendid,  whether  it's 
money  thrown  away  or  not !  Now  you  mustn't 
argue  ;  you  really  mustn't !  " 

She  shook  her  sailor  hat  imperatively  in  the 
Doctor's  face.  He  pursed  his  lips  a  little,  and 
taking  off  his  felt  hat  again,  passed  his  handker 
chief  across  his  forehead  and  the  obstinate  tufts 
of  gray  hair  that  crowned  it.  It  was  a  sign  of 
surrender,  but  for  that  matter  he  always  surren 
dered  to  Sally  Thayer.  She  nodded  her  approval 
most  magnanimously,  and  then  turned  easily  to 
Kennedy,  and  made  him  find  the  next  batter's 
name  up^on  the  score-card. 

For  three  innings  Dr.  Atwood  tried  submis 
sively  to  give  attention  to  the  game.  It  was 
mainly  a  pitcher's  battle,  and  no  runs  were  scored. 
From  time  to  time  Kennedy  leaned  past  Miss 
Thayer  and  volunteered  some  information,  which 
the  Doctor  vainly  endeavored  to  comprehend. 
The  only  thing  that  gave  him  real  amusement 
was  watching  Tom  Beaulieu,  reputed  to  be  the 
best  third-baseman  in  Connecticut,  and  the  best 
coach  anywhere,  dance  along  the  coaching  lines, 
shouting  advice  to  the  Plated  City  runners,  and 
commenting,  to  the  exquisite  delight  of  the  mill 
hands,  upon  the  personal  appearance  and  moral 


THE  PLATED   CITY  9 

character  of  the  New  Haven  pitcher.  But  the 
latter  pitched  more  steadily  with  every  inning. 

"  Tom  ought  to  let  him  alone,"  whispered  the 
man  behind  Kennedy.  "  I'm  blest  if  I  don't  think 
he's  doing  more  harm  than  good  now.  He's  got 
that  fellow  nerved  up  to  pitch  his  prettiest." 

The  ninth  inning  came.  Since  the  fifth  not  a 
man  had  reached  third  on  either  side.  The  New 
Havens  went  out  quickly  in  the  first  half,  and 
it  was  now  or  never  for  the  Plated  City  team. 
Their  three  best  batsmen  were  up,  but  the  first 
two  flied  out,  amid  groans  from  the  spectators. 
Then  a  great  cry  of  "  Beaulieu  !  Beaulieu !  "  ran 
around  the  field,  as  the  third-baseman  stepped  to 
the  plate  once  more.  He  had  to  take  off  his  hat 
to  the  grand  stand  before  the  crowd  would  stop 
cheering,  and  when  some  one  shouted  "  A  home 
run,  Tom  !  "  the  tumult  began  all  over  again,  until 
the  fat  umpire  pulled  out  his  watch  threateningly 
and  cried  "  Play  ball !  "  Then  there  was  quiet 
again,  that  strained  quiet  which  is  more  trying 
to  the  nerves  than  noise.  The  only  players  who 
seemed  entirely  cool  were  Beaulieu  and  the  pitcher, 
who  grinned  amicably  at  each  other  as  the  first 
ball  was  delivered,  two  feet  wide  of  the  plate. 
The  second  was  even  farther  out  of  Tom's  reach, 
though  the  New  Haven  man  made  a  well  simu 
lated  effort  to  controvert  the  umpire's  decision. 
His  tactics  were  plain  enough  now.  The  cool 
hand  that  he  was  !  The  next  batter  was  a  certain 


10  THE  PLATED   CITY 

victim,  and  the  pitcher  was  going  to  send  Beaulieu 
to  first  base  on  balls,  and  leave  him  stranded  there. 

"  Three  balls  !  " 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it,  though  the  last  one 
had  curved  dangerously  near  the  plate,  and  Beau- 
lieu's  elbows  had  lifted  a  trifle,  irresolutely,  as  it 
shot  by.  One  good  ball  was  all  that  he  asked  for. 
But  would  he  get  it  ?  The  pitcher's  grin  widened 
into  a  leer  as  he  rolled  the  ball  under  his  fore 
finger.  A  few  hot-headed  men  in  the  open  stands 
began  to  hiss :  it  was  a  low  trick  to  give  Tom 
Beaulieu  his  base  on  balls  in  that  fashion,  when 
everybody  knew  that  the  next  man  at  the  bat,  the 
Plated  City  pitcher,  had  made  but  two  hits  that 
year  ! 

"  Four  balls  ! " 

There  it  was.  Beaulieu  took  first  on  a  dog 
trot,  shaking  his  head  dubiously.  The  next 
batter  advanced  ruefully  to  the  plate,  and  the 
New  Haven  man  stopped  leering  and  settled 
down  to  end  the  inning. 

"  One  strike  !  " 

The  ball  had  shot  across  the  plate  like  a  bullet, 
and  the  catcher  fumbled  it.  There  was  a  roar  of 
delight  from  the  crowd,  for  Beaulieu  had  stolen 
second,  and  was  dancing  around  the  short-stop, 
hoping  to  make  the  pitcher  throw.  But  the  lat 
ter  knew  his  business,  and  proceeded  to  finish  the 
inning  as  planned. 

"  Two  strikes !  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  11 

Before  the  ball  had  left  his  fingers  Beaulieu 
plunged  furiously  for  third.  rThe  catcher  threw 
low,  and  he  was  safe.  Panting  like  a  deer-hound, 
he  pulled  himself  to  his  feet,  and  fifteen  hundred 
Plated  City  people  yelled  their  admiration.  Yet 
there  was  not  one  likelihood  in  a  hundred  of  his 
getting  in,  and  no  one  knew  it  better  than  Tom 
Beaulieu.  He  dashed  the  dust  out  of  his  eyes, 
and  led  off  recklessly.  If  he  could  only  tempt 
the  pitcher  to  throw  to  third,  there  was  a  bare 
chance.  But  the  pitcher  only  grinned,  and  pre 
pared  to  deliver  the  third  strike.  As  his  hand 
went  up,  Beaulieu  sprang  forward,  and  was  half 
way  home  as  the  ball  struck  the  catcher's  glove. 

"  One  ball !  "  cried  the  umpire,  amid  a  murmur 
of  intense  excitement.  The  runner  checked  him 
self  by  a  violent  effort,  his  black  eyes  fastened 
upon  the  ball.  The  catcher  made  a  feint  of 
throwing  to  third,  and  then  tossed  the  ball  delib 
erately  to  the  pitcher.  And  alas  for  him,  he 
tossed  it  too  deliberately,  for  certainly  the  ball 
had  not  left  his  hand  before  Tom  Beaulieu,  with 
a  cat-like  bound,  darted  for  the  plate !  Ten 
yards  to  run  and  five  to  slide,  before  the  pitcher 
could  return  the  ball !  The  grand  stand  leaped 
to  its  feet  as  one  man,  as  the  frantic  pitcher  seized 
the  ball  —  it  seemed  forever  before  it  would  reach 
him  —  and  hurled  it  in  with  a  throw  that  was 
perfection  itself.  Man  and  ball  seemed  to  reach 
the  plate  together  in  a  cloud  of  dust ;  but  as  it 


12  THE  PLATED    CITY 

settled,  it  disclosed  Beaulieu  lying  at  full  length 
across  the  plate,  while  the  catcher,  upset  by  that 
tremendous  slide,  lay  on  his  back,  a  yard  away. 
The  umpire  waved  his  hand  impressively.  He 
could  have  been  heard  if  he  had  whispered,  so 
hushed  was  the  crowd. 

"  That  man  is  safe,"  he  said. 

The  catcher  sat  up  and  flung  down  his  mask 
with  a  curse;  Beaulieu  leaped  to  his  feet,  wiping 
his  forehead  with  his  brown  forearm  ;  then  Bed 
lam  broke  loose,  and  the  game  was  over. 

"Stole  home  while  the  pitcher  held  the  ball," 
yelled  a  red-faced  director,  in  a  falsetto  voice 
that  soared  above  the  hoarse  tumult  of  the  Plated 
City  folk.  "  Well,  well,  I  am  blamed.  Hooray 
for  Tom  Beaulieu!  Everybody  together  now;  let 
him  have  another !  Hooray ! !  " 

Dr.  Atwood  and  the  young  people  had  risen 
like  the  rest,  and  Kennedy  waved  his  hat  in  hom 
age  to  the  crack  player  of  Bartonvale,  though  not 
without  a  sidewise  look  at  Miss  Thayer.  They 
were  hired  players,  after  all,  and  it  was  scarcely 
good  form  in  a  director  who  represented  the  Hill 
people  to  betray  too  much  partisanship.  The 
ragged,  leaderless  shouting  seemed  in  rather  poor 
taste  for  the  grand  stand;  really,  they  used  to 
manage  that  sort  of  thing  very  much  better  at 
Yale!  Miss  Thayer  also,  as  the  noise  subsided 
and  the  party  awaited  its  turn  to  pass  down 
toward  the  exit,  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  mis- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  13 

giving  as  to  the  character  of  the  entertainment 
she  had  been  enjoying.  To  be  sure,  several 
women  friends  of  hers  were  there,  but  they  were 
quite  obliterated  behind  the  throngs  of  loud- 
voiced,  showily  dressed  young  men  whom  she 
did  not  knoAv.  These  crowded  past  her,  a  few 
of  them  raising  their  hats  elaborately  to  Craig. 
At  two  or  three  places  in  the  line  Dr.  Atwood 
sniffed  the  air  suspiciously;  intemperance,  as  well 
as  extravagance,  he  believed  to  be  a  necessary 
accompaniment  of  the  national  game. 

Kennedy  seemed  to  divine  Miss  Thayer's  mis 
givings.  "  It  is  a  queer  crowd  in  some  ways," 
lie  volunteered.  "  They  are  not  the  faces  that 
you've  noticed  in  the  Library." 

"  I  should  say  not! "  murmured  the  young 
woman. 

"  Here's  our  chance,"  cried  Kennedy,  leaping 
over  a  chair  and  clearing  the  way  for  Miss  Thayer 
and  the  Doctor.  "  There's  no  use  waiting  any 
longer." 

They  gained  the  front  of  the  grand  stand,  and 
made  good  their  place  in  the  slowly  moving  line. 
Twenty  feet  away  was  the  end  of  the  first  open 
stand,  now  three-quarters  emptied,  and  towards 
the  narrow  passage  between  the  stands  were 
marching  the  Plated  City  players,  followed  by  a 
screaming  crowd  of  boys.  The  creeping  line  on 
the  grand  stand  checked  itself  to  watch  them. 

"  Here   come   the   team,"    Kennedy   exclaimed, 


14  THE  PLATED   CITY 

turning  to  Miss  Thayer.  "You  see  they're  not 
half  bad. looking  fellows,  after  all." 

But  Miss  Thayer  ignored  the  salaried  heroes  of 
the  hour.  "Look,  Craig,"  she  whispered,  "just 
see  that  girl  on  the  open  stand.  You  are  wrong 
about  the  Library  faces;  that's  the  girl  I  told  you 
of,  who  draws  all  the  French  books.  Now  what 
do  you  make  of  her  ?  I  don't  mind  saying  that 
she  puzzles  me." 

Kennedy  followed  her  eye.  At  the  end  of  the 
open  stand,  half-way  up  the  tiers  of  seats,  stood 
a  girl  of  perhaps  twenty-two  or  twenty-three, 
entirely  alone.  She  was  very  perfectly  dressed 
in  a  close-fitting  waist  of  some  cool  cheap  print, 
with  skirts  of  a  darker  material.  One  gloved 
hand  carried  an  unopened  parasol;  with  the  other 
she  shaded  her  eyes  to  watch  the  on-coming  file 
of  ball-players.  The  July  sun  threw  her  tall, 
lithe  figure  into  sharp  relief  against  the  silver- 
gray  benches;  beneath  the  shadowing  hand  her 
dark  eyes  grew  darker  still,  gleaming  under 
dusky  lashes;  but  the  lower  face  and  throat,  in 
full  sunlight,  glowed  like  clear  brown  amber. 
Her  cheeks  seemed  slightly  flushed,  and  the  full 
red  lips  were  parted.  For  an  instant  the  vul 
garity  of  the  place  and  hour  was  dominated  by 
her  grave  yet  girlish  beauty,  and  half  the  men 
in  the  grand  stand  stopped  looking  at  the  team 
to  stare  at  her. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you,  Craig  !  "  whispered  Miss 
Thayer.  "  Isn't  she  fine  ?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  15 

"  Fine  ?  "  ejaculated  Craig  Kennedy.  "  She  is 
superb  !  " 

At  that  moment  the  players  tramped  past  be 
neath  her,  bats  in  hand.  Tom  Beaulieu,  who  had 
shaken  off  his  most  effusive  admirers,  was  the  last 
man  in  the  line.  As  he  reached  the  girl,  she 
leaned  over  and  touched  his  shoulder  with  the  tip 
of  her  parasol.  A  dimple  came  into  her  brown 
cheek  as  their  eyes  met,  and  hers  sparkled  with 
a  message.  The  swarthy  third-baseman  nodded 
merrily,  and  then,  realizing  suddenly  that  the 
eyes  of  fifty  men  were  upon  the  girl,  he  scowled 
an  instant,  reassumed  the  practised  nonchalance 
of  the  ball-player  in  uniform,  and  hurried  on  to 
the  dressing-room. 

The  file  of  men  upon  the  grand  stand  crept 
forward  again  toward  the  exit. 

"  That's  Tom's  sister,"  said  some  one  in  front 
of  Kennedy. 

He  turned  to  Miss  Thayer.  "It's  Beaulieu's 
sister." 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said.  "  Beaulieu  was  the  name 
she  gave  at  the  Library ;  of  course,  —  Esther 
Beaulieu.  But  she  said  she  had  just  come  here 
from  Quebec." 

"  That  Canuck  girl  ? "  continued  the  random 
voice  in  front  of  them.  "She  a  sister  of  Tom? 
Oh,  come !  Tom  Beaulieu's  a  colored  fellow ! 
Say,  he  doesn't  look  it,  though,  any  more  'n  I  do, 
does  he  ?  " 


16  i    THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  whispered  Sally  Thayer,  as 
Kennedy  gave  her  his  hand  down  the  rickety 
steps.  "  Is  he  a  colored  man  ?  " 

"  So  they  say,"  replied  Craig,  "  but  it  doesn't 
hurt  his  ball-playing.  I  don't  know  that  he  really 
is,  though.  How  is  that,  Dr.  Atwood?  haven't 
you  always  heard  that  Tom  Beaulieu's  mother 
was  colored  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember,"  said  the  Doctor,  fussing 
with  his  driving-gloves.  "  I  should  hate  to  sort 
out  all  the  relationships  on  Nigger  Hill."  He 
glanced  at  Craig,  and  the  men  dropped  the  subject. 

"  Help  Sally  into  the  back  seat,  won't  you,  Ken 
nedy  ?  Want  to  be  left  at  the  Library,  little  girl  ? 
I'll  drive  myself,  Roberts." 

Dr.  Atwood  stepped  lightly  into  the  surrey, 
and  touched  the  whip  to  his  nervous  black  horses. 
The  clay  dust  of  the  Flats  rose  chokingly  about 
the  carriage  ;  the  pedestrians  on  both  sides  of  the 
road  were  noisy,  and  not  all  of  them  were  sober ; 
and  Miss  Thayer  renewed  her  impression  that 
Craig  Kennedy  had  offered  her  a  recreation  of 
slightly  dubious  character.  The  Doctor's  horses 
crossed  the  Mattawanset  at  a  trot  that  made  the 
old  bridge  swing ;  the  policeman  on  duty  at  the 
farther  end  would  have  arrested  anybody  else 
for  fast  driving,  but  he  only  touched  his  helmet 
respectfully  to  Dr.  Atwood.  Along  Main  Street 
the  crowd  was  thick  upon  the  corners  and  before 
the  saloons,  and  the  Doctor  shook  his  head  in 


THE  PLATED   CITY  17 

silence.  He  believed  in  Saturday  holidays  less 
than  ever.  The  curtains  were  down  in  the  office 
windows  of  his  own  Plate  Works  for  the  first 
time  in  twenty-five  years,  except  on  Sundays  and 
legal  holidays.  He  muttered  this  to  Craig,  as  he 
swung  the  horses  sharply  around  the  corner  of 
the  Works,  across  the  tracks  of  the  new  electric 
road,  and  into  the  cool,  elm-shadowed  Green. 

Half-way  down  the  Green  he  pulled  up.  "  Going 
to  your  office,  Kennedy  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  forgot 
to  leave  you." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  young  architect,  humbly, 
"  I'm  as  bad  as  all  the  rest.  I  haven't  anything 
on  hand  now,  anyway,  except  a  new  bay  window 
up  at  Mrs.  Gascoigne's.  And  I  suppose  the  car 
penters  have  been  at  the  game,"  he  added,  with 
a  ruefulness  that  made  Sally  Thayer  laugh. 

"Exactly,"  was  the  grim  response  of  the  Doctor. 
"  You  fellows  got  me  to  promise  this  Saturday 
foolishness  for  two  months,  and  I'll  keep  my  word, 
but  it'll  be  enough,  all  around.  —  Well,  we'll  drive 
up  to  the  Library,  then.  Let's  see,  what  are  your 
hours,  Sally  ?  " 

"  Five  to  eight,  Saturdays.  I  seem  to  be  the 
only  one  with  a  clear  conscience.  —  Oh,  dear  !  " 
she  cried  comically,  as  the  clock  on  the  Congre 
gational  church  struck  five. 

In  a  moment,  however,  the  surrey  mounted  a 
steep  street,  closely  lined  with  the  lower  of  the 
two  tiers  of  houses  that  clustered  about  the  Hill. 


18  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  professional  people  of  Bartonvale,  the  lawyers 
and  ministers  and  the  more  successful  store-keep 
ers,  lived  here  on  High  Street.  One  tier  above 
them,  on  Summit  Street,  were  the  residences  of 
the  mill-owners  and  plate-shop  presidents,  whose 
enterprise  had  transformed  the  sleepy,  ancient 
town  of  Bartonvale  into  the  Plated  City ;  and 
crowning  the  crest  of  the  Hill  was  a  melancholy 
row  of  pines  —  a  landmark  for  miles  around  — 
which  enclosed  three  sides  of  the  old  Atwood 
place.  At  the  intersection  of  High  and  Summit 
streets,  the  horses  stopped  before  a  beautiful  little 
Gothic  building  in  brownstone,  over  whose  en 
trance  was  affixed  a  bronze  tablet  "set  in  place 
by  the  fellow-citizens  of  Dr.  James  Atwood,  in 
appreciation  of  his  public  spirit  in  erecting  this 
Library."  Kennedy  leaped  out,  followed  by  Miss 
Thayer.  A  half-dozen  mill  hands  and  schoolgirls 
were  already  waiting  upon  the  Library  steps,  with 
brown-covered  books  to  be  exchanged. 

"Good  by,  Dr.  Atwood,"  said  the  librarian. 
"Thank  you  so  much.  And  don't  tell  the  di 
rectors,  please,  that  I  was  five  minutes  late. 
They're  such  a  conscientious  body,  what  wouldn't 
they  do  to  me  !  But  I  should  tell  them  that  you 
were  at  the  ball  game  too." 

The  Doctor  twinkled  behind  his  steel-bowed 
glasses.  Sally  Thayer  was  one  of  the  few  people 
in  Bartonvale  who  were  not  afraid  of  him.  He 
watched  her  trim  figure  as  she  ran  up  the  steps, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  19 

unlocked  the  door,  and  waved  farewell  at  Mr. 
Kennedy,  Avlio  stood  by  the  carriage  with  the  air 
of  a  man  whose  occupation  was  suddenly  gone. 
The  Doctor  looked  at  him  keenly  an  instant,  and 
drew  a  long  breath.  Yes,  the  young  fellow  had 
the  best  of  it,  after  all ! 

"  Take  you  anywhere  you  like,  Craig,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  replied  Kennedy  ;  "  I'll  stroll 
around  to  Mrs.  Gascoigne's,  and  get  a  look  at  the 
window,  I  think." 

The  elder  man  nodded,  and  gathered  up  the 
reins.  Then  he  paused,  and  necking  with  his 
whip  at  the  shoulder  of  the  off  horse,  added, 
without  raising  his  eyes  to  the  architect, 

"  By  the  way,  Kennedy,  suppose  you  come  up 
to  my  house  to-night.  I'd  like  to  have  a  talk 
with  you." 


20  THE  PLATED   CITY 


DR.  ATWOOD'S  absent-mindedness  at  supper 
that  evening  was  a  source  of  very  slightly  con 
cealed  hilarity  on  the  part  of  the  pert  Irish  girl 
who  waited  upon  his  bachelor  table.  The  Doc 
tor's  peculiarities  had  indeed  for  twenty-five  years 
been  the  staple  subject  of  conversation  among 
the  long  series  of  cooks,  waitresses,  and  coachmen 
who  had  successively  ministered  to  his  neces 
sities.  They  alternately  bullied  and  wheedled  him, 
without  even  letting  him  suspect  the  fact ;  though 
away  from  his  own  roof  the  men  or  women  who 
bullied  or  wheedled  James  Atwood  were  very  few 
indeed.  The  servants  made  endless  fun  of  his 
old-fashioned  ideas  and  bachelor  economies,  and 
could  never  understand,  any  more  than  did  the 
rest  of  Bartonvale,  why  the  owner  of  the  Silver 
Plate  Works  should  keep  on  living  in  the  identi 
cal  story-and-a-half  frame  house  he  had  inherited 
from  his  father.  When  the  Doctor  came  out 
upon  the  narrow  verandah  after  supper,  for  in 
stance,  he  seated  himself  in  the  same  wooden- 
bottomed,  fiddle-backed  armchair  that  had  served 
him  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The  great  lawn 
of  the  Atwood  place  was  always  mown  as  smoothly 


THE  PLATED   CITY  21 

as  a  scythe  could  cut  it,  but  the  Doctor  disliked 
the  sound  of  a  lawn-mower,  and  would  never 
allow  his  man  to  use  one.  He  had  been  ap 
proached  diplomatically,  at  various  times,  with 
reference  to  cutting  down  the  long  line  of  pine 
trees  which  fringed  the  crest  of  the  Hill,  and 
spoiled  the  view  of  several  of  his  wealthy  neigh 
bors.  But  here  Dr.  Atwood's  conservatism  was 
supported  by  his  sentiment.  Those  pine  trees 
had  been  set  out  by  his  father  when  his  mother, 
coming  to  Bartonvale  as  a  bride,  had  owned  that 
she  missed  the  soughing  of  the  Maine  pines. 
They  had  grown  old  with  her  children,  and  now, 
when  the  Doctor  was  the  last  Atwood  in  Barton- 
vale,  they  were  giant-boughed,  full  of  purple 
grackles  in  the  springtime,  and  murmuring  with 
a  more  melancholy  music  of  their  own  through 
out  the  year.  In  front  of  the  house  there  were 
no  trees.  The  lawn  stretched  to  the  very  verge 
of  the  cliffs  that  formed  the  south  side  of  the 
Hill,  and  at  the  bottom  there  was  just  room  for 
the  embankment  of  the  Mattawanset  Valley  Rail 
road  between  the  Hill  and  the  river.  Beyond  the 
river,  which  curled  swiftly  here,  and  retained 
something  of  the  wildness  of  its  upper  reaches, 
were  dense  masses  of  tall-chimneyed  buildings  — 
rubber,  and  brass,  and  wire  mills  —  and  the  huge 
straggling  Silver  Plate  Works  of  Dr.  Atwood 
himself.  To  the  right  and  left  were  low,  conical 
hills  again,  covered  with  the  tenements  of  the 


22  THE  PLATED   CITY 

mill  hands,  while  the  Mattawanset  flowed  south 
ward  through  the  Flats,  along  an  ever-widening 
valley  at  whose  end,  on  a  clear  sunset,  one  might 
see  from  the  Atwood  place  the  flashing  of  the 
Sound.  Sea-breezes,  undreamed  of  in  the  steam 
ing,  fretting  valley,  often  reached  the  hilltop,  and 
seemed  to  blow  back  and  forth  among  Dr.  At- 
wood's  pines.  Often,  however,  when  the  west 
wind  blew,  and  the  big  air  furnaces  of  the  machine 
shops  underneath  the  Hill  were  in  full  blast,  the 
bitter  smoke,  bearing  the  scent  of  molten  metal, 
would  drift  over  the  Atwood  place  in  gray  scuds, 
and  fine  metallic  cinders  choked  the  air. 

But  to-night  the  smoke  of  the  Plated  City's  tor 
ment  was  carried  westward,  and  the  Doctor  sat 
tranquilly  on  his  verandah,  looking  at  the  roofs  of 
the  Plate  Works.  It  was  in  war  time  that  he  had 
bought  stock  there,  and  after  a  little  had  given  up 
his  medical  practice  altogether,  to  devote  his  en 
tire  energies  to  Silver  Plate.  From  a  boy  he  had 
always  wanted  to  go  into  business,  and  though  he 
started  late,  few  Bartonvale  boys-  had  ever  made 
more  money  in  twenty -five  years  than  he.  And 
yet  there  were  other  things  in  the  world  besides 
money ;  that  had  been  brought  sharply  home 
again  to  the  Doctor  in  the  afternoon,  when  he 
was  watching  Craig  Kennedy  and  Sally  Thayer. 

Sally  Thayer  !  If  the  world  and  the  people  in 
it  had  only  been  built  on  slightly  different  lines, 
she  might  have  been  his  child,  instead  of  the  child 


THE  PLATED   CITY  23 

of  another  man.  His  love  for  the  girl's  mother 
was  the  one  romance  of  James  Atwood's  life. 
Thirty-five  years  before,  in  the  early  fifties,  there 
was  a  time  when  he  might  have  won  her,  but  grad 
ually  there  deepened  in  her  the  conviction  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  be  a  foreign  missionary,  and  with 
a  saintly  simplicity  of  purpose  she  obeyed  that 
inner  voice.  She  accepted  as  a  call  from  God  the 
marriage  proposal  of  a  gawky  theologue  from 
East  Windsor  Hill,  and  they  went  to  Burmah. 
Neither  of  them  had  any  faculty  for  acquiring 
languages  nor  the  slightest  gift  for  teaching. 
Filled  with  the  highest  ideal  yearnings,  they  were 
nevertheless  both  of  them  too  thorough  New  Eng- 
landers  to  have  any  sympathy  with  the  Oriental 
mind,  and  though  they  searched  the  Scriptures 
daily,  they  never  discovered  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  an  Oriental  point  of  view.  After  years 
of  painful  effort,  the  husband  gathered  material 
for  a  'Burmese  dictionary,  but  when  he  forgot  to 
make  a  ditch  around  their  bungalow  to  carry  off 
the  water  in  the  rainy  season,  the  jungle  fever 
swept  him  off  remorselessly.  The  widow  came 
back  to  Bartonvale,  bringing  a  little  girl  and  a 
large  collection  of  idols,  and  for  a  while  supported 
herself  by  giving  magic  lantern  lectures  before 
ladies'  missionary  societies  on  the  life  and  charac 
ter  of  the  Burmese. 

James  Atwood,  who  had  now  abandoned  his  pro 
fession,  and  was  engrossing  himself  in  business,  re- 


24  THE  PLATED   CITY 

newed  his  suit,  with  a  fervor  that  had  only  grown 
with  years.  But  she  regarded  herself  as  bound  to 
the  dead  man,  out  there  in  the  jungle,  and  was 
gently  firm  in  her  refusal.  She  was  still  a  beauti 
ful  woman,  with  a  sweet  girlish  face  under  her 
prematurely  gray  hair,  and  had  a  heart  that  was 
brave  and  loyal,  but  in  the  practical  State  of  Con 
necticut,  Mrs.  Thayer  seemed  to  find  no  function 
for  herself  except  that  of  talking  about  missions, 
and  the  prevalent  Bartonvale  opinion  that  she  had 
been  a  remarkably  successful  missionary  was  based 
on  the  tacit  understanding  that  she  was  good  for 
nothing  else. 

Then,  very  slowly,  there  came  upon  her  an  in 
curable  disease  that  confined  her  for  years  to  the 
house,  and  at  last  to  her  room,  a  tiny,  sunshiny 
room  looking  out  on  the  quietest  corner  of  the 
Green.  Dr.  Atwood  had  entered  it  but  once.  He 
came  to  beg  her  to  accept  a  room  in  a  private  hos 
pital  in  New  York,  knowing  well  that  constant 
surgical  supervision  would  prolong  her  life  and 
that  the  favorable  moment  for  a  successful  opera 
tion  might  be  found.  She  shook  her  head  slowly, 
and  then  lay  back  upon  the  pillows,  smiling  at 
him  with  the  old  gentle  obstinacy  in  her  eyes.  If 
it  were  the  Lord's  will  that  she  should  die  of  this 
hardness  in  her  breast,  she  would  die  in  Barton- 
vale,  where  she  could  close  her  eyes  in  peace. 
"And  I  am  an  old  woman,  James,"  she  said.  "I 
am  more  than  fifty.  I  think  it  would  be  of  no 


THE  PLATED   CITY  25 

use."  It  was  an  inexpressibly  painful  moment 
for  him.  He  wondered  if  she  had  not  loved  him 
a  little,  all  the  while,  and  if  that  was  not  why  she 
shrank  from  accepting  a  favor  from  him.  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  say.  He  glanced  around 
the  peaceful,  white-painted  room,  with  its  gerani 
ums  and  cyclamens  blooming  in  the  window,  the 
canary  twittering  in  its  cage,  the  old-fashioned 
stand  by  the  bedside,  holding  a  Bible  and  a  pile 
of  Missionary  Heralds  ;  and  then  he  went  silently 
out.  If  he  could  have  looked  back,  he  might  have 
seen  her  long  lashes  close  wearily,  and  heard  the 
thin  lips  murmur  over  again,  with  a  passionate 
endeavor  at-  fidelity,  the  sacred  words — they 
were  at  once  an  outcry  of  love  and  a  prophecy 
of  reunion  —  whispered  by  her  gaunt  husband, 
as  he  lay  dying,  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 

No,  there  was  nothing  that  Dr.  Atwood  could 
do  for  the  woman  whom  he  had  idolized  all  his 
life  long,  except  surreptitiously  to  smooth  her 
daughter's  path.  The  ingenuity  he  showed  in 
providing  for  Sally  Thayer  was  extraordinary. 
When  the  Atwood  Library  was  dedicated,  the 
self-satisfaction  of  Bartonvale  in  the  gift  would 
have  been  sadly  lessened  if  the  townsfolk  could 
have  suspected  how  potent  a  reason  for  the  en 
dowment  of  the  institution  was  the  opportunity 
to  offer  the  position  of  librarian  to  Sally  Thayer. 
Miss  Thayer  endeavored  by  a  most  scrupulous  dis 
charge  of  her  not  very  onerous  duties  to  make  a 


26  THE  PLATED   CITY 

fair  return  for  the  salary  voted  her  by  the  Library 
directors,  of  whom  Dr.  Atwood  was  chairman, 
but  she  knew  well  enough  why  she  had  been 
appointed. 

It  was  of  the  daughter  that  the  Doctor  was 
thinking,  as  he  sat  in  his  wooden-bottomed  chair, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Plate  Works,  wait 
ing  for  Craig  Kennedy.  He  meditated,  vaguely 
as  yet,  and  still  with  increasing  definiteness  of 
purpose,  a  step  which  would  astonish  Bartonvale, 
but  which  was  after  all  nobody's  business  but  his 
own.  The  last  of  the  At  woods,  he  was  slowly 
making  up  his  mind  to  leave  the  Atwood  place, 
and  most  of  his  fortune,  to  the  child  of  the  one 
woman  whom  he  had  loved.  There  was  every 
reason  why  he  should  act  deliberately.  He  did 
not  come  from  a  long-lived  race,  it  is  true;  not  an 
ancestor  for  four  generations  had  reached  sixty, 
and  the  Doctor  was  fifty-eight.  Nor  did  he  look 
forward  to  so  many  more  years  of  business  activ 
ity;  there  were  many  competitors  in  the  silver 
plate  industry  nowadays,  the  profits  were  smaller 
than  they  once  were,  and  it  seemed  increasingly 
difficult  to  get  along  without  trouble  from  the 
workmen.  The  Doctor  had  secretly  determined 
to  sell  out  when  the  right  opportunity  showed 
itself.  In  the  meantime  there  were  a  great  many 
things  to  be  thought  of,  of  which  the  probable 
future  of  Sally  Thayer  was  one. 

Whom,  for  instance,  would   she   be   likely   to 


THE  PLATED   CITY  27 

marry?  It  pleased  the  old  bachelor's  fancy  to 
imagine  Sally  Thayer's  children  playing  about 
the  lawn  of  the  Atwood  place,  but  he  did  not 
propose  to  leave  his  property  to  the  wife  of  a 
spendthrift,  or  a  drunkard,  or  —  he  had  never  out 
grown  his  antipathy  to  the  Rev.  P.  W.  Thayer 
—  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  He  had  taken  alarm 
the  previous  summer,  and  again  more  recently, 
at  the  attentions  shown  Miss  Thayer  by  the 
Rev.  Whitesyde  Trellys,  the  young  rector  of  St. 
Asaph's.  They  had  won  the  Hill  tennis  champion 
ship  in  doubles  the  year  before — he  had  picked 
up  during  a  year  at  Oxford  some  strokes  which 
he  used  exasperatingly  well  —  and  being  ex-officio 
a  director  of  the  Library,  and  particularly  inter 
ested  in  the  reading  habits  of  what  he  termed  the 
"  working  classes,"  Trellys  found  ample  opportu 
nity  to  continue  his  intimacy  with  Miss  Thayer 
throughout  the  winter.  There  was  something 
about  his  low,  fatigued  voice,  his  high-cut  waist 
coat,  and  even  the  way  he  spelled  his  name  —  for 
the  Whitesides  and  the  Trellises  had  been  good 
farming  folk  in  the  Mattawanset  Valley  for  a  hun 
dred  years  before  the  young  fellow  entered  the 
Church  —  that  excited  the  animosity  of  Dr.  At 
wood.  He  dreaded  lest  Sally,  in  spite  of  all  her 
occasional  levity  of  manner,  should  have  inherited 
a  fatal  reverence  for  the  clerical  profession. 

Greatly  to  his  relief,  he  had  often  seen  her  of 
late  with  Craig  Kennedy.     The  latter  was  an  old 


28  THE  PLATED   CITY 

playmate  of  hers,  to  be  sure  ;  a  Bartonvale  boy 
who  had  never  been  farther  away  from  the  Plated 
City  than  was  necessitated  by  a  couple  of  years' 
attendance  at  the  Sheffield  Scientific  School  in 
New  Haven,  and  a  subsequent  course  in  archi 
tecture  in  New  York.  As  compared  with  White- 
syde  Trellys,  Kennedy  had  in  the  Doctor's  eyes 
the  merit  of  being  distinctly  secular.  Besides,  he 
was  a  much  more  wholesome  young  man  to  look 
at,  for  the  rector  of  St.  Asaph's  was  lean  and 
colorless,  and  sidled  along  the  streets  of  Barton- 
vale  as  if  he  were  in  the  town  on  sufferance. 
Whether  Kennedy  was  really  making  a  living, 
however,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  further  question 
of  whether  he  was  capable,  if  necessary,  of  sup 
porting  Sally  Thayer,  —  was  a  point  upon  which 
the  Doctor  felt  a  pardonable  curiosity.  It  was 
difficult  to  ascertain  the  exact  state  of  affairs. 
He  had  accordingly  conceived  the  idea  of  test 
ing  Craig's  professional  competence  by  asking  his 
ideas  about  a  certain  imaginary  residence  to  be 
built  upon  the  Atwood  place,  and  the  Doctor 
trusted  to  his  own  shrewdness  to  find  out  some 
thing  incidentally,  not  only  about  Kennedy's 
business  prospects,  but  also  whether  there  were 
any  discoverable  inclination  on  his  part  toward 
the  young  woman  whom  he  had  escorted  to  the 
ball  game  that  afternoon,  and  who  had  waved 
him  such  a  familiar  and  as  it  were  cousinly 
good-by  from  the  steps  of  the  Library. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  29 

While  Dr.  Atwood  was  turning  over  in  his  mind 
the  form  of  certain  adroit  inquiries  which  he  in 
tended  to  address  to  the  young  architect,  there 
was  a  step  on  the  gravel,  and  Kennedy  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  verandah. 

"  Good  evening,  Doctor,"  he  said,  waving  his 
hand  toward  his  straw  hat.  "  I  hope  I  haven't 
kept  you  waiting." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Take  that  rocking- 
chair,  Craig." 

"  I  stopped  a  'minute  at  the  Library,  coming 
up,"  continued  Kennedy,  in  the  innocence  of  his 
heart. 

"  You  did,  eh  ?  "  returned  the  elder  gentleman, 
concealing  his  delight  at  the  information. 

"  Yes,  I  wanted  to  return  a  book. " 

"  Oh,"  said  Dr.  Atwood,  his  face  falling  a  little. 
"  That  was  it,  was  it  ?  Find  some  books  there  of 
the  kind  you  want,  once  in  a  while,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  so  !  "  replied  Kennedy.  "  It  was  a 
great  thing  for  this  town,  Doctor,  when  you  gave 
that  Library.  Lewis  says  that  if  we  only  had  a 
law  library  now,  with  a  court-house  and  a  county 
jail  handy,  Bartonvale  would  be  fixed." 

The  Doctor  laughed.   "  Who  said  that  ?  Lewis?" 

"  Yes,  Norman  Lewis.  We're  rooming  together, 
you  know,  down  in  the  Bank  block.  You'd  better 
come  up  some  evening,  sir,  and  smoke  a  cigar 
with  us." 

"Thank    you,"   said    the    Doctor,    cautiously. 


30  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  You  may  see  me,  but  I  guess  it's  doubtful.  I 
think  well  of  Lewis,  though.  Wants  a  law  library, 
does  he  ?  Well,  it  ain't  likely  that  any  one'll  give 
him  that.  Finds  it  pretty  expensive  to  buy  books, 
eh?" 

"  Dreadfully,"  responded  Kennedy.  "  Books  on 
architecture  are  bad  enough."  , 

"  But  that  idea  of  a  jail  is  a  good  one,"  pur 
sued  Dr.  Atwood,  cheerfully.  "  Tell  him  I'll  build 
it,  if  he'll  fill  it !  That  is,  if  he'll  let  me  name  the 
inmates.  —  What  were  you  saying  about  archi 
tecture,  just  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Craig,  "  except  that  the 
Library  has  some  very  good  plates.  English 
cathedrals,  you  may  remember,  and  things  of 
that  sort.  I've  been  looking  them  over  lately." 

"  Going  to  build  a  cathedral  ? "  inquired  Dr. 
Atwood,  quizzically. 

"  Not  exactly,"  laughed  Kennedy.  "  But  I've 
been  drawing  some  plans  for  Trellys.  There's 
some  talk  of  a  new  Episcopal  church." 

The  Doctor  sniffed.  The  intelligence  was  a 
dozen  or  fifteen  years  old,  and  he  had  lost  faith 
in  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Kennedy,  "  it  does  no  harm  to 
have  the  plans,  anyway  ;  and  I  haven't  had  much 
else  to  do  lately.  I've  designed  the  church  and 
a  parish  house,  and  a  rectory." 

"  And  a  what  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor,  with  a  sudden 
trepidation. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  31 

"A  rectory." 

Dr.  Atwood  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  thrust  his 
fingers  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets.  "  What  does 
Trellys  want  of  a  rectory  ?  "  he  demanded  suspi 
ciously.  "  Doesn't  expect  to  get  married,  does 
he?" 

Kennedy  shook  his  head.  "He  doesn't  honor 
me  with  his  confidence,  if  he  does.  But  Trellys 
is  one  of  those  fellows  who  don't  tell  all  they 
know.  He  has  a  long  head." 

"  And  a  dreadful  narrow  one  !  "  pursued  the 
Doctor,  sententiously.  "  His  skull's  no  wider  than 
a  woodchuck's.  I  saw  him  play  tennis  once  last 
summer  with  his  hat  off,  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
then  that  he  was  a  fellow  that  would  bear  watch 
ing." 

Kennedy  tipped  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 
"  I  must  tell  that  to  Norman  Lewis.  He  isn't  any 
fonder  of  Trellys  than  you  seem  to  be.  But  I 
haven't  anything  against  the  rector ;  and  then 
business  is  business." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  the  Doctor,  "  if  it  is  business. 
But  if  it's  only  tomfoolery,  it  ain't.  Now  I  don't 
believe  that  Episcopal  society's  got  any  money  to 
build  with.  They'll  have  to  stay  in  their  old 
sheet-iron  church  awhile  yet.  They're  most  of 
them  poor,  you  know ;  a  lot  of  'em  work  in  the 
brass  mill.  And  the  Episcopalians  up  here  on  the 
Hill  wont  put  up  a  cent  if  the  church  is  going  to 
be  down  toward  the  Flats.  You  can  count  on  that." 


32  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Well,"  said  Kennedy,  "  Lewis  says  they  have 
a  Church  Building  Fund,  anyway.  He  was  told 
so  at  the  Bank." 

Dr.  Atwood  shifted  impatiently  in  his  chair. 
"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  It  is  made  up  of  the  proceeds  of  Trellys's  lec 
ture  last  winter  on  Gothic  Architecture,"  contin 
ued  Kennedy,  calmly.  "It  amounts  to  $13.75. 
That's  one  of  Lewis's  stories  though,  and  not 
mine." 

The  Doctor  was  mollified.  "You  can't  build 
much  of  a  rectory  for  that,"  he  admitted.  "  But 
I  don't  want  to  see  Trellys  get  ahead  of  you, 
Craig.  In  that,  or  in  anything  else."  —  The  Doc 
tor  breathed  freer  after  that  enigmatic  last  clause, 
but  the  cheery,  gossipy  young  architect  seemed 
not  to  catch  the  purport  of  it. 

"  Well,  Doctor,  "  he  said  more  confidentially, 
still  wondering  why  Dr.  Atwood  did  not  bring 
forward  the  subject  he  had  desired  to  talk  over 
with  him,  "  I'll  tell  you  why  I  designed  all  those 
things  for  Trellys.  It  wasn't  that  I  expected  to 
make  anything  out  of  it ;  it  was  just  for  the  pleas 
ure  of  working  away  at  some  good  stone  buildings 
that  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with.  It's  three 
years  since  I  hung  out  my  shingle,  and  most  of 
what  I've  done  is  what  Lewis  calls '  afterthoughts.' " 

"  Afterthoughts  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Like  Mrs.  Gascoigne's  bay  window.  No 
part  of  the  original  plan,  you  know,  but  stuck 


THE  PLATED   CITY  33 

on  because  the  woman  didn't  know  what  else  to 
do  with  her  money.  Didn't  you  hear  about  my 
St.  Paul  fireplaces  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Why,  that  confounded  Lewis  told  all  the  fel 
lows  at  the  Mattawanset  Club  that  I  had  designed 
a  new  fireplace  :  automatic  adjustments  and  a  lot 
of  nonsense  of  that  sort, — I've  never  heard  the 
last  of  it,  —  all  because  a  couple  of  people  on  the 
Hill  put  in  new  fireplaces  just  after  St.  Paul  pre 
ferred  stock  went  up  ten  points,  last  fall !  That's 
where  the  automatic  business  came  in :  '  up  goes 
the  stock  ;  in  go  the  fireplaces  ! '  And  that  isn't 
the  worst  of  it,"  he  went  on  lugubriously.  "  Lewis 
has  begun  now  to  run  me  on  my  Rubber  porte- 
cochere.  You  know  Ed  Ebbins  was  caught  ter 
ribly  in  Rubber  last  May  ?  Well,  I  had  just  got 
up  a  big  granite  porte-cochere  for  him,  —  he  would 
have  it  granite  and  he  would  have  it  big,  —  and  the 
thing  was  half  done  when  the  squeeze  in  Rubber 
came.  Well,  it  left  Ed  so  flat  that  he  built  the  rear 
posts  of  brick,  when  the  plans  called  for  stone,  of 
course,  — and  as  you  come  down  High  Street  it 
looks  like  the  very  deuce  !  That's  my  Rubber 
porte-cochere,  you  see  —  one  of  my  choice  after 
thoughts  !  Do  you  wonder  that  I  like  to  turn 
around  and  get  up  a  quiet  little  Norman  rectory, 
that  may  never  be  built,  but  won't  need  any  after 
thoughts  when  it  is  built?" 

Dr.   Atwood  nodded  briskly,  and  hitched  his 


34  THE  PLATED   CITY 

chair  a  trifle  closer  to  Craig's ;  the  talk  was  tak 
ing  exactly  the  turn  he  liked.  "No,"  he  said, 
"  that's  good.  That's  all  right.  There's  no  harm 
done.  But  what  would  you  say  to  trying  your 
hand  at  something  that  would  be  more  in  the  line 
of  a  forethought?  The  fact  is,  Craig,  I  wanted 
you  to  come  up  to-night  to  see  what  your  ideas 
would  be  as  to  a  house  here  on  my  place." 

The  young  fellow  stared. 

"  In  other  words,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "what 
sort  of  house  ought  there  to  be  here,  suppose  you 
could  go  ahead  and  put  up  anything  you  wanted 
to?  That's  it." 

Kennedy  drew  a  long  breath,  and  his  eye 
glanced '  over  the  three  or  four  acres  of  gently 
rounding  greensward.  Dusk  was  falling,  and 
through  the  lowest  branches  of  the  pines  gleamed 
here  and  there  the  lights  from  the  chambers  of 
the  houses  on  Summit  Street.  But  the  upper  sky 
was  clear,  and  to  the  southward  the  valley  stretched 
on  in  the  evening  light  until  it  met  a  band  of  rosy 
cloud  that  hung  above  the  Sound.  From  Main 
Street,  far  below,  rose  the  indistinct  murmur  of 
the  Saturday  night  throng  that  streamed  aim 
lessly  up  and  down  the  pavement,  under  the  elec 
tric  lamps ;  and  along  the  river  bank,  and  down 
the  Flats  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  twinkled 
the  red  and  green  switch  lights  of  the  Valley 
Road. 

"There    isn't    a    building    site    like    this    in 


THE  PLATED   CITY  35 

the  whole  Mattawanset  Valley,"  said  the  archi 
tect,  slowly.  "  If  you're  going  to  build  at  all, 
you  ought  to  have  a  house  to  match  it.  But  —  " 
He  hesitated,  finding  it  impossible  to  imagine  an 
old  bachelor  of  Dr.  Atwood's  shrewdness  capable 
of  any  elaborate  folly. 

"You  think  the  old  house  is  good  enough  for 
the  old  man,  do  you?  So  it  is,  so  it  is.  But  I 
don't  know  that  there's  any  harm  in  figuring  a 
little  on  what  might  be  done.  Why  can't  I  make 
a  fool  of  myself  as  well  as  Whitesyde  Trellys?  " 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  assented  Kennedy,  jocosely. 
"  If  you  won't  set  a  thirteen  dollar  and  seventy- 
five  cent  limit,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  could 
produce  quite  a  house !  Give  the  word,  and  we'll 
go  ahead." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Atwood,  meditatively,  throw 
ing  one  leg  over  the  arm  of  his  chair,  "suppose 
we  say  one  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

Kennedy's  tone  changed  instantly.  "  I  didn't 
know  that  you  meant  it  seriously,  Doctor.  If 
you  will  give  me  some  idea  of  what  is  in  your 
mind,  I  can  give  a  rough  estimate,  certainly." 

"  Never  mind  what's  in  my  mind,"  said  the 
autocrat  of  Bartonvale.  "  I  want  to  see  what's  in 
yours.  Suppose  you  had  a  hundred  thousand  to 
work  with,  what  could  you  do  with  it  up  here?" 

The  architect  sauntered  to  the  end  of  the  ver 
randah  and  measured  with  his  eye  the  distance 
to  the  top  of  the  cliff.  Then  he  gazed  off  be- 


36  THE  PLATED   CITY 

hind  the  house  toward  the  stables.  He  was 
trying  to  think  fast,  and  to  keep  cool.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  doubt  of  Dr.  Atwood's  serious 
ness.  In  any  case,  the  affair  promised  at  least 
as  well  as  Trellys's  Norman  rectory. 

"  That's  on  the  supposition  of  tearing  this  house 
down,  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  in  his  most  off-hand  pro 
fessional  manner.  "This  is  the  best  site,  of 
course. —  No,  I'm  not  sure  but  a  hundred  feet 
to  the  north  would  be  even  better." 

Dr.  Atwood  nodded.  "  I  don't  want  the  pine 
trees  touched,  though." 

"That  wouldn't  be  necessary.  There's  plenty 
of  room  off  behind  there  for  new  stables.  You 
wouldn't  want  them  quite  so  near  the  house, 
building  nowadays." 

The  Doctor  gave  a  toss  of  his  head,  indicative 
of  profound  scepticism  of  various  modern  notions  ; 
but  Kennedy  disregarded  it  and  went  on. 

"  A  house  on  the  crest  of  these  cliffs  ought  cer 
tainly  to  be  of  stone  ;  a  dark  limestone,  I  should 
say,  or  perhaps  some  of  that  new  granite  from  up 
the  river,  with  darker  trimmings.  It  ought  not 
to  be  too  high,  of  course  ;  one  would  have  to 
study  the  lines  of  the  Hill,  as  seen  from  the 
Green,  to  get  just  the  right  proportions.  But 
how  would  something  of  this  sort  strike  you?" 
The  architect  had  a  certain  Newport  house  in 
mind,  which  was  useful  as  affording  a  basis  for 
his  fancy  to  work  upon,  and  off  he  went,  tenta- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  37 

tively  at  first,  until  he  saw  that  the  Doctor  meant 
to  interpose  no  suggestions  of  his  own,  and  then 
more  rapidly,  as  the  enthusiasm  of  creation  seized 
him,  into  a  sketch  of  the  sort  of  house  he  would 
like  himself.  The  Doctor  listened  attentively, 
while  the  dusk  settled  in  upon  the  narrow  old- 
fashioned  piazza  of  the  Atwood  place,  to  Kennedy's 
proposals  of  a  huge  south  verandah,  and  another 
on  the  east,  leading  to  the  porte-cochere  —  it  was 
to  be  no  Rubber  porte-cochere,  either  !  —  of  square 
halls  and  big  fireplaces  and  morning  room  and 
music  room  ;  of  Tudor  staircases,  and  library  and 
billiard  and  smoking  rooms,  and  a  loggia  on  the 
second  floor,  and  guest  chambers  without  end  ;  of 
the  latest  improvements  in  heating  and  plumbing, 
and  lighting  and  electric  bells ;  and  all,  stables 
included,  for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  with 
perhaps  a  few  thousands  to  spare.  It  was  not 
quite  dark  when  the  young  fellow  finished.  No 
conversation  for  a  long  time  had  made  Dr.  Atwood 
feel  quite  so  old.  What  a  different  world  it  was 
that  Craig  Kennedy  looked  out  into,  from  the 
world  James  Atwood  entered  as  a  boy  ! 

"  Well,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  I  can't 
follow  you  in  all  of  those  details,  for  I'm  behind 
the  times,  you  know,  and  the  old  Atwood  place 
has  always  been  good  enough  for  me.  But  you 
seem  to  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  and  I 
wish  you'd  draw  up  some  plans.  There's  no  hurry 
you  understand  ;  take  your  own  time  about  it." 


38  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  Doctor's  Irish  housemaid  came  through 
the  front  hall,  whistling,  and  lighted  the  swinging 
kerosene  lamp.  It  shone  through  the  screen  doors 
full  on  the  Doctor's  face  as  he  turned  to  Kennedy 
and  added  slowly  :  "  And  when  you  get  the  plans 
to  suit  you,  I  wish  you'd  see  how  they  suit  Sally 
Thayer." 

"  Sally  Thayer  ?  "  repeated  the  amazed  young 
fellow,  automatically.  "  Sally  Thayer  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said,"  replied  Dr.  Atwood,  shut 
ting  his  lips  testily  in  a  way  that  threw  his  white 
tuft  of  chin  whiskers  forward.  The  face  said, 
more  plainly  than  words,  "Whose  business  is  it 
but  mine?" 

It  flashed  over  Kennedy  that  there  might  be 
something  after  all  in  the  gossip  current  upon 
Main  Street  to  the  effect  that  the  "  old  man  "  was 
failing.  This  impression  was  instantly  succeeded 
by  another  to  the  effect  that  Sally  Thayer  was 
destined  to  be  a  lucky  girl.  The  Doctor's  former 
attachment  to  the  mother  was  no  secret  in  Barton- 
vale,  and  he  was  capable  of  giving  the  girl  a  hun 
dred  thousand  dollar  house,  or  two  or  three  of 
them,  if  he  took  it  into  his  old  head  to  do  so. 
To  do  justice  to  Craig  Kennedy,  however,  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  his  own  fondness  for  Sally 
Thayer  was  in  any  way  related  to  whatever  eccen 
tric  generosity  Dr.  Atwood  might  choose  to  show 
her.  He  was  startled,  consequently,  by  the  im 
plication  of  the  Doctor's  next  question,  which 


THE  PLATED   CITY  39 

followed  upon  a  pause  that  both  men  had  felt  to 
be  a  trifle  awkward. 

"  Do  you  think  you  and  Sally  would  like  the 
same  kind  of  house  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Craig,  laughing  the  question  off 
as  lightly  as  possible,  "  Sally  and  I  don't  quarrel 
about  most  things,  but  I  don't  remember  that  we 
have  ever  discussed  that  particular  topic." 

"  Here's  a  good  chance  for  it,  then." 

"  Yes,  but  —  it  strikes  me  that  might  be  a  some 
what  delicate  subject  to  talk  over  with  —  well,  say 
with  Miss  Thayer." 

"  That's  for  you  to  say,"  replied  the  Doctor, 
imperturbably.  "  It  seems  simple  enough  to 
me." 

"  If  you  wouldn't  mind  making  a  suggestion  or 
two,  then,"  said  the  architect,  humbly,  "  I  should 
really  like  to  know  what  I  am  to  give  Miss  Thayer 
to  understand." 

Dr.  Atwood  peered  keenly  at  him. 

"  You  can  tell  her  this,"  he  answered,  striking 
the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  closed  hand  :  "  There's 
an  old  fellow  named  James  Atwood  who  wants  to 
build  her  a  house  on  Bartonvale  Hill.  She  can 
have  it  for  a  wedding  present  whenever  she  gives 
the  word.  Sally  ain't  engaged  to  any  one  now, 
is  she  ?  "  The  fear  of  Whitesyde  Trellys  was  still 
struggling  in  his  mind  with  the  hope  that  there 
might  be  some  understanding  between  the  girl 
and  Craig. 


40  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  said  Craig,  a  trifle 
stiffly. 

"  All  right.  That's  none  of  my  business,  except 
just  to  say  this:  I  want  that  little  girl  to  be  happy. 
If  she's  going  to  marry  the  wrong  sort  of  man, 
she  might  as  well  stay  down  on  the  Green,  or 
anywhere  else.  And  so  the  old  fellow  on  the 
Hill  isn't  going  to  take  any  chances;  he  wants 
to  know  whom  Sally  is  going  to  marry  before  he 
goes  ahead  with  the  house.  You  can  tell  her  so, 
if  you  like.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

Kennedy  nodded  gravely.  Touched  and  flat 
tered  as  he  was  by  the  old  autocrat's  confidence, 
certainly  never  did  a  rising  architect  of  twenty- 
five  have  a  more  puzzling  commission  to  execute. 
If  Sally  Thayer  were  only  somebody  else,  the  mat 
ter  would  be  so  much  simplified ! 

Suddenly  he  divined  the  real  message  which 
even  the  Doctor's  brusqueness  had  failed  to  state 
in  set  terms.  It  was,  "  Marry  Sally  Thayer  your 
self  and  build  your  own  big  nest  on  the  hilltop." 
The  blood  swept  into  his  face  at  the  thought.  He 
was  really  fonder  of  Sally  than  of  any  one  else: 
but  some  way  or  other  the  proposition  struck  him 
as  unsportsmanlike.  It  gave  him  an  immense 
advantage  over  Trellys.  Was  not  Dr.  Atwood's 
offer,  after  all,  a  bribe  to  him  as  well  as  to  her  ? 
He  felt  this  vaguely,  without  being  able  to  phrase 
it  to  himself,  as  he  rose,  and  took  a  troubled  turn 
or  two  upon  the  dark  piazza. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  41 

"Dr.  Atwood,"  he  broke  out,  "don't  you  see 
that  I  can't  give  that  message  to  Miss  Thayer  ? 
I'm  not  the  one  to  do  it.  I  should  like  immensely 
to  draw  the  plans,  though;  let  me  do  that  and 
turn  them  over  to  you." 

The  Doctor  rose  too,  and  stood  a  moment  gaz 
ing  down  upon  the  lights  of  the  Plated  City. 

"  As  you  like,"  he  said,  realizing  that  he  might 
have  been  incautious.  "There's  no  hurry,  any 
way.  Only,  I  don't  want  the  little  girl  to  make 
any  mistake  that  she'd  be  sorry  for  afterward. 
That's  all." 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  and  then 
the  young  fellow  put  out  his  hand,  with  a  formal 
ity  not  usually  observed  among  the  business  men 
of  Bartonvale, 

"Good  night,  Doctor,"  he  said;  "I'll  have  some 
thing  to  show  you,  then,  one  of  these  days." 

"  Good  night,  Craig,"  replied  Dr.  Atwood. 
"This  is  all  between  us,  you  understand.  Good 
night." 

He  stood  listening  to  Kennedy's  retreating  foot 
steps  until  the  sound  was  lost  in  the  murmur  of 
the  pines.  He  had  assured  himself  of  the  archi 
tect's  professional  competence.  No  one  could 
have  sketched  the  plan  of  that  house,  off-hand, 
who  did  not  know  his  business.  But  Dr.  At- 
wood's  new  respect  for  the  architect  was  lost 
sight  of  in  the  consciousness  of  a  yearning  lik 
ing  for  Craig  himself.  If  he  had  only  had  a  boy 


42  THE  PLATED  CITY 

like  that  of  his  own!  And  it  might  have  been, 
perhap3  —  perhaps.  Yet  there  was  no  use  in 
thinking  any  more  about  what  might  have  been. 
He  was  the  last  of  the  Bartonvale  Atwoods;  a 
sort  of  fatality  had  followed  them.  If  poor 
Everett  had  only  lived,  the  Atwood  place  might 
not  be  so  lonely  now,  but — .  The  Doctor  dropped 
into  his  chair  again,  and  thought  how  much  Craig's 
voice,  in  the  dusk,  was  like  that  younger  brother's, 
the  reckless,  hot-headed  brother  who  had  fallen  in 
a  wretched  skirmish  in  Louisiana,  while  fighting 
on  the  wrong  side.  Poor  Everett;  he  had  been 
one  of  the  "  black  Atwoods,"  with  the  crisp  blue- 
black  hair  and  wild  eye  and  tawny  skin  that  once 
in  every  two  or  three  generations  appeared  in  the 
Connecticut  branch,  —  the  unfailing  indication  of 
an  untamed  nature,  a  roving  fancy,  an  ungovern 
able  blood,  —  and  he  had  been  like  all  the  rest, 
except  that  he  was  the  only  one  to  take  arms 
against  his  country.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that, 
dying  in  disgrace,  he  had  left  no  child.  Yet  a 
wave  of  pity  surged  over  the  solitary  Doctor  as 
he  recalled  how  the  dead  man  and  himself  had 
chased  each  other  as  children  over  the  very  lawn 
where  the  fireflies  were  gleaming  so  lustrously 
now,  neither  of  them  dreaming  in  all  their  boyish 
fancies,  that  in  one  generation  the  old  Atwood 
place  might  pass  into  the  hands  of  others  —  it 
was  too  bad  —  too  bad.  But  the  Doctor  rose 


THE  PLATED   CITT  43 

after  a  little,  and  went  in.  There  was  no  use  in 
brooding  over  the  irrevocable.  It  was  more  cheer 
ful  to  throw  one's  mind  forward,  to  think  about 
something  pleasant, — about  Craig  Kennedy,  for 
instance,  and  Sally  Thayer. 


44  THE  PLATED   CITY 


III 


THE  steam  whistles  of  the  Plated  City  shrieked 
in  piercing  chorus  that  it  was  noon.  Before  the 
bells  had  ceased  striking  the  hour,  the  stream  of 
operatives  poured  from  shop  and  mill,  filling  the 
narrow  streets  of  the  Flats  with  reverberating 
voices  and  shrill  laughter.  The  long  south  room 
on  the  second  floor  of  the  Atwood  Plate  Works 
emptied  rapidly  and  of  the  women  and  girls  who 
sat  at  the  etching  bench  in  front  of  the  windows, 
Esther  Beaulieu  was  the  only  one  who  still  lin 
gered  over  her  task.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  plated 
ice-pitcher,  upon  whose  dull  surface  she  had  been 
laboriously  tracing  a  florid  design  of  oak-leaves 
and  acorns.  A  pile  of  brown  paper  patterns  lay 
in  front  of  her,  with  a  tiny  pot  of  asphalt  varnish, 
and  a  half-dozen  etching  tools.  The  only  other 
occupant  of  the  bench  was  a  great  blue  heron, 
standing  sleepily  by  one  of  the  polisher's  lathes  a 
few  feet  away,  with  one  of  its  ungainly  legs  tied 
securely.  The  polisher  had  caught  it  on  Decora 
tion  Day,  and  was  immensely  proud  of  his  ill- 
natured  pet.  Miss  Beaulieu  chirruped  to  the 
captive,  as  the  room  grew  still,  and  then  bent 
lower  than  ever  over  the  ice-pitcher.  She  had 


THE  PLATED   CITY  45 

been  but  a  month  at  the  bench  and  still  dreaded 
lest  her  wrists  might  not  be  found  firm  enough 
for  the  work  required.  There  was  a  noiseless  step 
behind  her.  The  jaunty  young  foreman  of  the 
room  had  thrown  on  his  coat  with  the  rest,  when 
the  whistle  blew,  but  he  was  coming  back  now  for 
a  word  with  "the  French  girl."  For  an  instant 
he  watched  her.  The  sleeves  of  her  thin  shirt 
waist  were  tucked  up,  leaving  her  slender  arms 
bare  to  the  elbow ;  her  heavy  black  hair  was 
knotted  behind,  and  the  loose  collar  gave  a  glimpse 
of  little  curls  around  the  neck ;  from  where  he 
stood  leaning  he  could  just  see  her  long  dark  eye 
lashes  and  one  brown,  rich-blooded  cheek.  She 
heard  him  breathe,  and  turned  swiftly,  nervously 
tightening  her  grasp  upon  the  etching  needle. 
He  smiled  reassuringly,  and  with  a  timid  bow  she 
bent  again  over  the  ice-pitcher.  He  had  always 
been  noticeably  polite  to  her. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  us  here  ?  "  he  said,  pull 
ing  at  his  mustache.  u  Good  place,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"You  have  been  very  kind."  She  spoke  Eng 
lish  slowly  and  with  a  deliciously  foreign  accent. 

"There  is  one  fault  I  have  to  find  with  you, 
though." 

"  A  fault  ?  "     She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Yes."  His  left  hand  was  upon  the  back  of 
her  chair  now.  "You  work  over  time.  Didn't 
you  know  that  I  could  fine  you  for  that  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  puzzled  smile  that 


46  THE  PLATED   CITY 

intoxicated  him.  "  I  cannot  work  so  fast  as  the 
rest.  Perhaps  my  hand  is  not  strong  enough 
yet." 

"  Let  me  see."  He  slipped  his  right  hand 
along  the  bench,  and  grasped  her  wrist  trium 
phantly.  "  Now  take  your  fine  ! "  he  cried,  stoop 
ing  to  kiss  her.  She  had  already  made  a  startled 
movement  as  his  fingers  closed  upon  her  arm, 
and  now,  with  a  desperate  effort,  she  twisted  her 
self  free,  and  stood  panting.  The  young  fellow 
laughed  and  sprang  towards  her,  not  meaning  to 
be  foiled  again.  The  girl  retreated,  but  stumbled 
over  a  chair,  and  fell  helplessly  against  the  bench 
in  front  of  the  blue  heron,  dozing  in  the  August 
noon.  She  hid  her  face  with  a  frightened  sob. 
There  was  a  swift  rustle  above  her  head,  an  oath, 
a  groan,  and  she  was  conscious  of  blood  spurting 
against  her  arm.  The  great  heron,  savage  at  the 
interruption  of  its  nap,  had  stealthily  darted  its 
terrible  beak  straight  between  the  eyes  of  the 
laughing  foreman. 

Miss  Beaulieu  raised  her  head.  Above  her 
towered  the  gaunt  bird,  its  long  bill  poised  again, 
its  yellow  eyes  glittering.  But  the  man  had 
enough.  He  groped  his  way  along  the  bench  to 
the  door,  and  swayed  down  the  stairs,  moaning. 
The  room  grew  still  again.  Little  by  little  the 
heron's  beak  sank  upon  its  breast.  Its  eyes  closed. 
It  did  not  mind  Esther  Beaulieu. 

The  girl  was  unnerved.     She  took  her  hat  from 


THE  PLATED   CITY  47 

the  peg,  rolled  down  her  sleeves,  and  slipped  fear 
fully  out  of  the  Plate  Works.  The  hot  streets 
were  silent,  in  this  middle  of  the  noon  hour,  and 
she  stole  along  with  downcast  eyes,  toward  one  of 
the  sandy  hills  that  shut  in  the  Flats  on  the  south 
west.  Half  way  up  the  hill  she  stopped  at  a  new, 
yellow-painted  tenement  house,  and  went  in.  A 
stout,  mellow-voiced  colored  woman  met  her  at  the 
door. 

"Yo'  dinnah's  all  ready,  Miss  Bowlyer." 

"  I  don't  care  for  any  dinner,  to-day,"  replied 
the  girl,  in  a  strained  voice.  "  You  need  not  keep 
anything  for  me." 

The  colored  woman  shook  her  head  protest- 
ingly,  but  the  girl  mounted  the  stairs  to  her  own 
room,  and  turning  the  key,  flung  herself  upon  the 
bed,  where  she  lay,  sobbing  softly,  until  long  after 
the  Plated  City  whistles  had  screamed  that  the 
noon  hour  was  over. 

The  Plated  City,  in  swiftly  succeeding  lessons, 
was  teaching  Esther  Beaulieu  where  she  belonged. 
The  two  months  that  had  elapsed  since  her  arrival 
from  Quebec  seemed  longer,  far  longer,  than  her 
whole  previous  life.  When  her  Aunt  Beaulieu 
died,  and  she  started  for  the  States  to  live  with 
Tom,  she  was,  in  spite  of  her  twenty-two  years, 
a  child.  Of  Bartonvale,  her  birthplace,  she  re 
membered  nothing,  except  that  there  was  a  river 
there.  Of  her  father,  Pierre  Beaulieu,  who  had 
sent  her  to  his  sister  in  Canada  upon  her  mother's 


48  THE  PLATED   CITY 

death,  she  had  a  vague  remembrance,  in  which 
huge  mustaches  and  a  pipe  and  a  stone-mason's 
hammer  played  the  chief  parts.  He  died  before 
Esther  had  been  many  years  in  Canada ;  but  as 
Tante  Beaulieu  could  not  take  his  boy,  too,  a 
home  had  been  found  for  Tom  by  the  selectmen 
of  Barton  vale.  The  girl  recalled  absolutely  noth 
ing  about  her  mother.  Tante  Beaulieu  had  rarely 
spoken  of  her,  and  then  in  an  enigmatical  fashion 
that  betrayed  nothing  except  an  enduring  resent 
ment  that  Pierre  should  have  married  without 
consulting  his  elder  sister.  Queer  old  Tante  Beau- 
lieu,  with  her  odd  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques, 
and  her  stories  of  the  South  of  France,  and  her 
desperate  republicanism !  She  and  her  brother 
had  emigrated  in  1849,  and  she  whispered  to  the 
girl,  often  enough,  that  her  father  might  have 
been  by  this  time  a  great  sculptor  in  Paris  in 
stead  of  a  stone-cutter  in  the  States,  if  he  had  not 
been  a  martyr  to  his  republican  principles.  Tante 
Beaulieu  passed  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques  for  an 
atheist ;  at  any  rate,  she  never  went  to  mass,  and 
she  read  Diderot  and  Rousseau  by  the  hour,  and 
when  it  came  to  a  matter  of  argument  was  quite 
too  much  for  the  priest.  She  would  never  allow 
Esther  to  be  confirmed.  On  the  contrary,  she 
sent  her  to  an  English  chapel  and  Sunday  school, 
maintaining  to  her  remonstrating  neighbors  that 
this  was  the  easiest  method  of  teaching  the  girl 
English.  She  was  forever  talking  about  migrating 


THE  PLATED   CITY  49 

to  the  States  herself,  when  Esther  should  be  old 
enough,  but  the  time  never  came.  One  bitter 
December  she  dropped  away  suddenly,  and  when 
Esther  wrote  her  annual  New  Year's  letter  to  Tom, 
—  the  brother  she  had  never  seen  since  they  were 
babies,  —  she  asked  him  if  she  could  not  now  come 
to  Bartonvale,  since  Tante  Beaulieu  was  dead,  and 
she  was  homeless, 

Tom's  misspelled  reply  bade  her  wait  until 
spring.  He  could  get  no  work  at  present,  but 
he  was  hoping  for  something  later.  In  May,  how 
ever,  when  her  slender .  inheritance  from  Tante 
Beaulieu  was  nearly  spent,  came  a  buoyant  letter 
from  the  Plated  City.  Tom  had  found  a  business 
at  last  that  was  just  to  his  liking.  He  was  earn 
ing  seventy -five  dollars  a  month.  She  must  come 
without  fail.  Perhaps  she  could  get  work ;  but 
if  not,  he  could  look  out  for  her  and  himself,  too ; 
he  had  such  a  fine  business  now  ! 

When  Esther  Beaulieu  alighted  upon  the  dirty 
platform  at  the  Bartonvale  depot,  one  June  even 
ing,  her  real  life  began.  No  one  advanced  to 
meet  her  ;  the  long  row  of  loafers  leaning  against 
the  dingy  brick  wall  of  the  station  stared  at  her  ; 
finally  the  train  rattled  on  up  the  Valley.  Just 
then  a  swarthy,  well-knit  young  fellow,  with  coal 
black  eyes,  who  had  been  standing  by  her  side 
scrutinizing  all  the  arriving  passengers,  touched 
her  shoulder. 

your  pardon  ;  you  ain't  Esther,  are  you  ?  " 


50  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Are  you  Tom  ?  "  she  asked  ;  and  as  he  nodded, 
she  put  out  both  hands,  the  sister's  love  shining 
from  her  eyes.  Then  she  burst  into  rapid  French, 
until  he  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  understand  it  —  not  a  word.  Never 
did  learn  it.  But  say,  I'm  awful  glad  to  see 
you."  He  looked  her  over  for  an  instant,  with 
admiring  eyes.  Then  he  whistled  commandingly 
for  a  hackman,  and  put  her  into  the  carriage  with 
a  seventy-five-dollar-a-month  disregard  of  ex 
pense  that  was  fine  to  see.  But  their  triumphant 
progress  was  a  brief  one,  for  in  five  minutes  the 
carriage  stopped  in  front  of  old  Cyrus  Calhoun's, 
on  Nigger  Hill. 

Esther  Beaulieu  remembered  afterwards  that 
Tom  watched  her  with  a  curious  expression,  as 
they  entered  the  house.  To  her  surprise  and 
amusement,  she  found  that  Tom  lived  with  col 
ored  people  !  It  did  not  occur  to  her,  at  that 
innocent  instant,  that  there  was  any  reason  why 
he  should  not,  if  he  chose.  The  Calhouns,  who 
were  numerous  and  of  varying  shades  of  com 
plexion,  sat  at  the  table  with  Tom  and  Esther ; 
and  the  latter's  chief  impression  was  that  the 
Calhouns  were  droll  and  good-natured,  and  that 
the  supper  was  very  good. 

It  was  afterwards,  when  Tom  carried  her  old- 
fashioned  portmanteau  upstairs  —  it  was  the  one 
that  Tante  Beaulieu  sailed  with  in  1849 — that  the 
truth  came  out.  She  asked  Tom,  gaily  enough, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  51 

why  he  preferred  to  live  with  negroes.  He  looked 
at  her  with  an  air  of  moody  bravado. 

"I  suppose  I'm  one  myself,"  he  replied  curtly. 
"  Didn't  your  aunt  ever  tell  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  wonderingly. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  that's  what  they  tell  me. 
It's  too  late  to  change  off  now,  anyway.  But 
I  don't  look  it,  do  I?" 

She  was  gazing  at  him  with  great  eyes.  Except 
for  the  deep  brown  skin  and  black  curly  hair  there 
was  about  him  no  trace  of  the  African. 

"  No  more  do  you,"  he  said.  "  That's  what 
fooled  me  at  the  depot." 

"I?     Ami  —  "  she  stopped. 

"  I  guess  you're  in  it,  too,  Esther." 

She  felt  the  blood  mounting  slowly  to  her  face, 
her  neck,  her  bosom. 

"But  you're  half  French,  anyway,"  he  con 
tinued  kindly,  "  and  I  ain't  even  that.  I  thought 
you  knew  all  about  it.  Cyrus  Calhoun  didn't  tell 
me  till  I  was  sixteen.  Your  father  was  Pete 
Beaulieu  ;  but  he  wasn't  mine.  Cyrus  says  I  was 
a  baby  when  mother  came  to  town,  from  down 
South  somewhere.  By  and  by  your  father  married 
her.  His  own  folks  wouldn't  have  anything  to 
do  with  him  after  that.  See?  That  proves  it. 
And  Cyrus  says  she  was  a  sort  of  octoroon,  most 
likely,  though  he  swears  she  was  whiter  than  I 
am,-  by  a  good  deal.  You  don't  remember  her, 
do  you?" 


52  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"I  was  only  three  years  old,  Tante  Beaulieu 
said."  She  drew  her  chair  nearer  Tom  and  took 
his  hand. 

"  I  was  about  four  or  five,  according  to  Cyrus. 
Seems  to  me  I  remember  her  :  a  great  tall  woman  ; 
they  say  Pete  Beaulieu  never  dared  lay  hands  on 
her,  not  even  when  he  was  drunk." 

The  girl  dropped  her  head. 

"  And  it  seems  to  me  she  was  kind  o'  dark," 
said  the  poor  fellow,  hazily.  "  She  never  said 
anything  about  her  first  husband,  but  I  guess 
they  put  me  down  in  the  census  as  a  nigger. 
But  if  she  was,  I  am,  and  you  are  :  fathers  don't 
count." 

"  Tell  me  about  my  father ! "  demanded  the 
girl,  hoarsely.  "  Wasn't  he  kind  to  my  mother  ?  " 

"  He  was  afraid  of  her,  from  all  I  can  hear. 
And  after  she  died  I  guess  he  didn't  pay  much 
attention  to  me.  Used  to  drink." 

Esther  Beaulieu  was  crying.  The  ball-player 
looked  at  her  helplessly. 

"I  might  as  well  go  ahead,  Esther,  and  tell 
what  I  do  know.  There  ain't  much  more,  except 
that  when  your  father  died,  the  town  paid  Mammy 
Hudson  so  much  a  week  for  taking  care  of  me. 
When  she  got  too  old  to  work,  I  came  here. 
The  selectmen  sized  me  up  as  a  nigger,  you  see, 
and  there  it  is.  There's  no  use  in  my  getting 
mad  over  it.  But  I'm  sorry  on  your  account, 
Esther.  If  I  hadn't  thought  you  knew  all  about 


THE  PLATED   CITY  53 

it,  I  wouldn't  have  written  you  to  come,  and 
perhaps  you'd  better  go  back  up  there,  as  it 
is." 

There  was  a  wistful  note  in  his  voice.  The 
girl  lifted  her  face  and  brushed  away  the  tears. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  certain  shame  and  disap 
pointment,  but  she  had  not  been  trained  to  per 
ceive  at  once  all  the  fatal  implications  of  that 
imputed  strain  of  alien  blood. 

"  I  have  no  one  to  go  back  to,"  she  said  simply, 
"  and  I  would  rather  stay  with  you." 

"That's  right,"  replied  Tom,  stoutly,  "I'll  take 
care  of  you.  This  is  a  pretty  rough  town,  but 
you  needn't  be  afraid  of  any  one  who  knows  Tom 
Beaulieu."  She  was  gently  stroking  his  arm, 
where  the  great  muscles  lay  sleepily. 

"Yes,  you  will  take  care  of  me,"  she  repeated; 
and  then  came  a  long  silence. 

"  I'm  awful  sorry,"  broke  in  Tom  at  ]ast,  with 
another  misgiving.  "  You  didn't  know  what  you 
were  coming  to,  did  you  ?  The  old  lady  ought  to 
have  told  you,  and  not  let  you  grow  up  thinking 
you  were  white." 

"White?"  she  demanded,  in  a  tone  that  was 
meant  to  be  brave.  "  You  do  not  see  any  differ 
ence  between  me  and  other  people,  do  you,  Tom  ? 
Look !  " 

It  was  long  past  sunset,  and  the  light  was  grow 
ing  dim  in  the  tawdry  little  chamber,  but  he  looked 
steadily  into  her  clear,  delicately  moulded  face  and 


54  THE  PLATED   CITY 

shook  his  head.  "  You're  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
Plated  City." 

"J2h  bien!  Then  what  difference  does  it  make 
whom  my  father  married  ?  There  were  half-blood 
girls  in  the  school  at  Quebec,  and  one  of  them  was 
the  best  dancer  there,  —  such  a  bright  girl !  To 
be  sure,  they  had  Indian  blood,  and  not  — "  she 
hesitated  —  "negro  blood;  but  what  if  they  had 
had  that  ?  No  one  would  have  cared.  And  no 
one  would  care  in  France.  Think  of  Alexandre 
Dumas,"  she  went  on,  excitedly;  "you  know  about 
him?  You  have  not  read  the  Three  Musket 
eers  ?  " 

The  Plated  City  ball-player  had  never  heard  of 
Dumas  pere. 

"  Why,  his  mother  was  a  negress,  and  no  one 
cared.  If  you  have  brains,  and  are  brave  and 
good,  and  people  like  you  —  what  difference  does 
it  make  ?  " 

"  It  may  not  make  any  difference  in  Canada," 
said  Tom,  bitterly,  "but  you'll  find  it  does  in 
Connecticut !  They  won't  have  anything  to  do 
with  you,  that's  all !  " 

The  girl  made  a  gesture,  half  of  perplexity,  half 
of  defiance. 

"  One  can  get  work." 

"Yes,"  said  Beaulieu,  wondering  what  work 
this  slim,  high-spirited  creature  could  find. 

"  Very  well.  We  can  earn  money  —  one  can 
not  live  without  money;  I  have  learned  that  in 


THE  PLATED   CITY  55 

Quebec  —  and  we  shall  have  each  other.  Is  not 
that  enough  ?  " 

She  was  pacing  the  room  in  rapid,  nervous 
strides,  but  paused  at  this  question  and  looked 
at  him.  He  rose  without  a  word,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek. 

"  We'll  get  along,"  he  whispered  affectionately. 
"  You'd  better  go  to  bed  now,  and  get  some  rest, 
Esther.  I'll  look  out  for  you.  Good  night." 

Such  was  Esther  Beaulieu's  initiation  to  the 
Plated  City.  She  had  gained  a  loyal  brother,  — 
though  he  was  not  her  own  father's  son,  —  and  she 
had  lost  caste  in  a  community  whose  lines  of  caste 
were  ineradicable. 

As  Tom  descended  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Calhoun  was 
waiting  for  him.  She  led  him  into  her  own  bed 
room,  and  shut  the  door  in  great  excitement. 

"Tom,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  mustn't  keep  that 
po'  critter  heah.  'Twon't  do  nohow.  Look  a 
heah !  I'se  watched  her  and  Cy's  watched  her 
when  she  wa'n't  looking,  and  I  tell  you  yo'  sis- 
tah's  white.  You  mustn't  make  a  nigger  of  hep 
by  keepin'  her  heah.  You  got  to  go  away,  Tom, 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  where  the  white  people 
are,  and  get  a  place  for  her  to  boa'd.  She  belongs 
over  there,  and  not  heah  on  Nigger  Hill.  It's  the 
trufe  I'm  say  in'.  Look  a  heah !  Old  Mammy 
Hudson  tol'  Cyrus  las'  week  that  her  ol'  man  lied 
to  the  selectmen  about  you  when  you  was  a  little 
chile.  The  ol'  man  wanted  to  git  the  money  for 


56  THE  PLATED   CITY 

yo'  boa'd,  and  swore  yo'  mother  was  a  kin'  o' 
mulatto,  you  know,  —  a  low  down.  But  Mammy 
Hudson  said  she  wa'n't.  There  wa'n't  no  drop  of 
nigger  blood  in  her.  She  was  one  o'  dose  Creoles 

—  Louisiana  folks,  you  know — French,  Spaniard, 

—  I  dunno  which  —  and  she  walked  into  Barton- 
vale  one  day  right  after  the  war  with  a  black- 
lookin'  baby,  and  that  was  you.     She  couldn't  git 
no  work,  and   she  was   kin'  o'  discouraged  and 
desperate-like,  and  some  days  she  was  out  of  her 
head  and  talked  crazy  —  said  she  had  a  husband 
in  Bartonvale,  and  couldn't   find   him  —  and  all 
that  —  and  she  settled  down  on  Nigger  Hill  and  did 
washin'  and  one  day  she  up  an'  married  ol'  Drunken 
Pete.     Yo'  sistah's  ol'  Pete's  chile,  but  she  ain't  no 
mo'  a  nigger  than  I'm  a  white  woman." 

"  Why  in  hell  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  be 
fore?"  demanded  Beaulieu. 

"  Cyrus  never  heard  it  till  las'  week.  'Fore  de 
Lord,  he  never  did.  Mammy  Hudson  wanted  to 
confess  to  a  deacon  in  the  church,  'n'  Cyrus  went 
accordin'.  The  selectmen's  all  dead  now,  an' 
there  ain't  no  Men'  o'  yo'  mother's  left.  Guess 
she  didn't  have  none,  anyhow.  Cyrus  tol'  me 
that  very  night,  but  I  says,  '  Wait  till  Tom's  sistah 
comes,  and  we'll  know  fo'  shu.'  You  couldn't 
ever  b'leeve  what  Mammy  Hudson  said,  but  that 
time,  'fore  de  Lord,  I  b'leeve  she  wa'n't  a  lyin'. 
She  stood  too  near  de  Judgment  'n'  de  Archangel 
wid  a  flamin'  trump." 


THE  PLATED   CITY  57 

Beaulieu  strode  upstairs  and  knocked  at  his  sis 
ter's  door.  It  was  opened  timidly,  far  enough  for 
him  to  see  that  her  dark  hair  was  down  upon  her 
shoulders  and  all  around  her  pale,  troubled  face. 

"It's  all  right,  Esther.  I've  just  found  out 
what  your  mother  was.  She  was  straight  Spanish 
or  something  or  other  ;  anyway,  she  was  no  more 
colored  than  Pete  Beaulieu  was  colored." 

The  girl  caught  her  breath. 

"  Your  mother  ? "  she  repeated.  "  Why,  she 
was  your  mother  too,  Tom." 

' '  Well  that's  so,  sure  enough  !  "  cried  the  sim 
ple  fellow.  "And  as  long  as  they  don't  know 
who  my  father  was,  I'm  going  to  be  a  white  man, 
from  now  on.  See  if  I  won't !  In  the  morning 
we'll  go  somewhere  else." 

Downstairs  he  strode  again  and  out  into  the 
street,  with  his  head  high.  That  night,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  walked  into  the  most  ex 
clusive  saloon  on  Main  Street,  and  ordered  a  drink 
like  anybody  else.  It  was  the  only  proclamation 
of  emancipation  he  could  think  of,  and  the  bar 
tender,  preserving  his  self-respect  under  the  sub 
terfuge  that  he  was  waiting  on  Beaulieu  the  ball 
player  and  not  Beaulieu  the  colored  man,  poured 
out  the  whiskey  deferentially,  and  called  Tom 
"  Mr.  Beaulieu  "  as  he  handed  over  the  change. 


58  THE  PLATED   CITY 


IV 

NEXT  morning,  however,  it  was  evident  that 
the  Plated  City  would  have  something  to  say  upon 
the  question  of  emancipation.  It  was  a  simple 
enough  matter  for  the  Beaulieus  to  accept  Mammy 
Hudson's  story  about  their  mother,  but  her  repu 
tation  for  veracity  had  never  been  rated  very  high 
in  Bartonvale,  and  the  fact  that  she  had  made  a 
death-bed  confession  of  deception  practised  upon 
the  selectmen  was  scarcely  to  be  credited  beyond 
the  precincts  of  Nigger  Hill.  Mrs.  Cyrus  Calhoun, 
indeed,  was  loyal  to  her  new  faith.  When  Tom 
and  his  sister  came  downstairs,  they  found  a 
table  for  two  spread  in  the  parlor.  The  youngest 
Calhoun  girl  waited  on  them,  watching  Esther- 
with  big  eyes.  After  breakfast,  the  Beaulieus 
crossed  the  river  in  search  of  a  boarding-place  out 
side  the  negro  quarter  of  the  town,  but  they  came 
back  silently  to  dinner  at  Cyrus  Calhoun's.  The 
boarding-houses  beyond  the  river  seemed  to  be 
singularly  full.  After  a  half-dozen  efforts,  Esther 
had  made  Tom  wait  on  the  corner  for  her,  while 
she  tried  alone.  Yes,  there  were  plenty  of  rooms ; 
and  then  Esther  beckoned  for  her  brother.  At 
sight  of  his  well-known  face  the  landlady  shrugged 


THE  PLATED   CITY  59 

her  shoulders.  She  was  very  sorry ;  she  had  not 
understood  the  young  lady's  question  ;  she  had 
no  rooms  to  let.  The  girl  bowed  haughtily,  and 
withdrew.  It  was  clear  that  without  Tom  she 
might  easily  find  a  boarding-place,  but  his  position 
in  the  Plated  City  had  been  too  long  determined. 
At  one  house  —  kept  by  the  mother  of  a  former 
mate  of  Beaulieu  at  the  public  school  —  Tom  ven 
tured  to  tell  Mammy  Hudson's  story,  but  the  woman 
shook  her  head.  She  too  was  very  sorry  ;  in  fact, 
everybody  that  morning  was  very  sorry  indeed. 

They  had  the  same  experience  the  next  morning 
and  the  next.  In  the  afternoons  Tom  went  off 
moodily  to  the  ball  grounds,  while  Esther  sat  in 
her  room.  The  fourth  day,  Mrs.  Calhoun  drew 
Tom  aside  and  suggested  a  compromise.  Her 
daughter  Angelina  lived  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
colored  quarter, — indeed,  there  were  more  Irish 
and  Germans  than  negroes  in  the  street,  —  and  An 
gelina  had  always  taken  white  boarders,  though  just 
now  she  had  none  at  all.  Would  it  not  be  better  for 
them  to  go  there?  Thither  the  Beaulieus  went 
accordingly,  and  Tom's  spirits  rose  again.  The 
change  was  not  much,  but  it  was  something.  The 
simple-hearted  fellow  had  never  taken  but  one 
step  at  a  time,  and  was  only  a  trifle  less  improvi 
dent  than  the  childlike  people  to  whose  ranks 
fate — and  a  board  of  selectmen  —  had  assigned 
him.  Tom's  vague  optimism  was,  in  the  early 
days  of  their  life  in  common,  at  once  a  wonder 


60  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  a  source  of  comfort  to  Esther.  He  had  al 
ways  had  the  experience,  totally  lacking  in  her 
life,  of  contact  with  people  who  felt,  and  could 
not  help  betraying,  their  consciousness  of  racial 
superiority,  if  not  a  latent  race  antagonism.  He 
had  learned  his  role.  But  in  mental  power  the 
girl  far  surpassed  him,  and  the  moment  she  began 
to  brood  over  the  problems  involved  in  those  race 
distinctions,  she  perceived  question  after  question 
of  which  her  boyish ,  happy-go-lucky  elder  brother 
had  never  dreamed.  Fortunately  for  her,  the 
days  were  full  of  new  impressions,  above  all  of  the 
new  sense  of  sisterly  affection,  which  rapidly  de 
veloped —  as  the  irresponsible,  immature  nature  of 
Tom  became  daily  more  clear  to  her — into  a  feel 
ing  almost  maternal  in  its  instinctive  pressure  of 
responsibility.  She  had  no  leisure  to  -brood- too 
long  over  problems  that  appeared  insoluble.  And 
Esther  Beaulieu,  besides,  was  naturally  as  light- 
hearted  as  her  brother.  She  was  the  child  of 
Pierre  Beaulieu,  the  theorist  and  exile  and  might- 
have-been  artist,  who  cut  stone  in  Bartonvale  and 
built  castles  in  Spain,  who  got  as  royally  drunk, 
alas,  on  Connecticut  cider  as  if  he  had  quaffed  too 
deeply  the  wines  of  his  own  Provence  ;  and  who 
had  crowned  his  levity  by  marrying  a  half -crazed, 
dubious,  babe-encumbered  newcomer  in  Barton- 
vale,  with  a  dark  queenliness  of  person  and  a 
French  patois. 

After   the   girl's  first  plunge   into  the  Plated 


THE  PLATED   CITY  61 

City,  her  spirits  came  back  to  her  with  a  sort  of 
rebound.  There  were  hours  when  she  faced  the 
future  almost  with  gaiety. 

In  one  of  these  buoyant  moods,  when  she  had 
been  scarcely  more  than  a  week  in  Bartonvale, 
she  happened  to  read  in  the  local  paper  that  the 
teacher  of  French  at  the  High  School  was  ill. 
Why  not  try  for  the  position?  She  had  hoped 
so  much  that  she  might  find  work ;  she  had  dis 
covered  that  Tom's  "  business  "  lasted  but  for  the 
summer  time.  Acting  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  —  her  brother  was  playing  ball  that  day 
in  Hartford,  —  she  learned  the  address  of  the 
teacher,  and  called  upon  her.  Would  she  like  a 
substitute  ?  Miss  Beaulieu's  face  was  in  her  favor. 
She  took  pains  to  explain  that  her  French  was  her 
aunt's,  and  not  the  French  of  Quebec ;  her  very 
name  and  her  slight  foreign  accent  substantiated 
the  truth  of  her  statements  ;  the  address  she  gave 
was  that  of  a  sufficiently  respectable  boarding- 
house  on  the  West  Side  ;  and  she  was  given  the 
position. 

For  two  days  she  was  happier  than  she  ever 
remembered  being  in  her  life.  The  girls  who 
came  to  the  tiny  recitation  room  raved  over  her  ; 
at  the  end  of  the  second  day  they  were  all  trying 
to  talk  French  on  the  way  home.  On  the  morn 
ing  of  the  third  day  there  were  whisperings  in 
the  class,  scrutinizing  looks  and  nods  of  confi 
dential  affirmation.  In  the  afternoon,  two  girls, 


62  THE  PLATED   CITY 

daughters  of  an  Irish  foreman  at  the  brass  mill, 
staid  away.  The  next  morning  the  superintendent 
of  schools  came  into  the  recitation  room,  just  be 
fore  the  time  for  the  first  class.  Like  the  board 
ing-house  keepers,  the  superintendent  was  very 
sorry ;  he  himself  would  never  care  to  draw  any 
such  line,  but  the  feelings  of  the  parents  must  be 
respected  ;  it  would  be  much  better  all  around 
if  she  would  take  this  check  for  a  full  week's 
teaching,  and  consider  her  services  at  an  end. 

"Please  tell  me  exactly  what  it  is  that  is 
wrong,"  asked  Miss  Beaulieu.  She  was  not  quite 
sure  that  she  had  understood.  People  sometimes 
spoke  such  difficult  English  in  the  States. 

"  You  are  a  sister  of  Tom  Beaulieu,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"Yes.  Certainly."  She  comprehended  now,  and 
her  head  was  poised  like  that  of  some  beautiful 
animal. 

"  Well,  these  girls'  parents  don't  want  them 
taught  by  a  colored  woman,  that's  all." 

He  was  rather  uncomfortable. 

Esther  Beaulieu  gazed  at  him  an  instant,  and 
then  tore  up  the  check  slowly,  and  went  home. 

She  sat  in  her  hot  room  all  that  day,  tasting 
the  bitterness  of  defeat.  It  had  seemed  to  her 
so  easy,  from  the  vantage  ground  of  the  school 
room,  to  win  some  sort  of  place  for  herself  in  the 
Plated  City.  But  the  Plated  City  did  not  pro 
pose  to  accept  her  on  any  such  terms,  and  she  felt 
more  clearly  than  before  the  intangible  nature  of 


THE  PLATED   CITY  63 

her  antagonist.  She  was  not  so  much  disheart 
ened  as  baffled.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
blood  in  her  veins,  it  was  not  sufficiently  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  give  her  an  instinctive  comprehension  of 
the  situation.  Her  sense  of  personal  humiliation 
was  lessened  by  her  indignation  against  what  she 
considered  a  defective  logic,  triumphant  though 
it  were.  She  told  herself  passionately  that  she 
did  not  care  whether  or  not  her  mother  were 
tinged  by  negro  blood.  What  mattered  the  truth 
or  falsehood  of  an  old  woman's  death-bed  gossip  ? 
Here  was  she,  Esther  Beaulieu,  just  what  she  was. 
What  magic  was  there  in  Mammy  Hudson's  talk 
to  make  her  better  or  worse  ?  Yet  the  best  proof 
that  she  was  beginning  to  recognize  the  Plated 
City's  power  was  a  sort  of  distrust  of  her  own 
reasoning ;  it  might  be  possible  that  she  was 
somehow  wrong  if  the  parents  of  all  those  kindly, 
pretty  schoolgirls  were  so  unanimously  right  ! 
It  was  plain  that  her  relation  to  Tom  was  what 
compromised  her.  If  it  were  not  for  him,  all 
would  be  easy.  And  this  thought  drove  her  back 
inevitably  to  her  position  of  defiant  struggle ; 
whatever  happened,  she  would  stand  loyally  by 
the  side  of  Tom  ! 

A  day  or  two  after  the  teaching  episode  she 
wandered  restlessly  across  the  river  again  and 
along  the  streets  that  wound  around  the  Hill. 
The  open  door  of  the  Atwood  Public  Library  met 
her  eye.  She  ventured  within  the  vestibule  and 


64  THE  PLATED   CITY 

peeped  into  the  interior.  Her  eyes  glowed  :  there 
were  books  and  books  and  books,  so  many  of 
them !  She  stepped  timidly  forward  to  a  long 
table  strewn  with  magazines,  and  glanced  hesi 
tatingly  at  the  big  wicker  chairs.  A  friendly- 
faced  young  woman,  with  her  hat  off,  looked  up 
from  behind  an  oak  desk  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  nodded  kindly.  "Won't  you  sit 
down?"  she  said. 

Miss  Beaulieu  seated  herself,  and  had  a  raptur 
ous  half -hour.  Then  she  began  to  eye  the  alcoves 
longingly.  No  one  else  came  into  the  Library : 
she  did  not  know  whether  she  might  be  permitted 
to  touch  the  books.  Sally  Thayer  watched  her 
awhile,  over  the  leaves  of  a  new  book  which  she 
was  cutting,  and  then  came  forward. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  like  very  much  to  see  the  books," 
hazarded  Esther  Beaulieu. 

"Most  certainly.  You  may  draw  three  at  a 
time,  if  you  wish.  Won't  you  go  to  the  shelves 
and  see  what  you  would  like  to  take  ?  "  And  seeing 
the  fine  creature  stand  irresolute,  in  the  presence 
of  an  unexpected  joy,  she  added,  in  the  words  of 
James  Atwood,  "  That's  what  the  Library  is  here 
for,"  and  sauntered  back  to  her  desk. 

For  another  half-hour,  Esther  roved  from  cool 
alcove  to  alcove.  She  forgot  all  about  the  color 
line,  and  everything  else.  At  last  she  found  her 
self  by  some  low  shelves  where  was  arranged  a 


THE  PLATED   CITY  65 

miscellaneous  collection  of  French  fiction,  bought 
at  a  bargain  by  the  Doctor's  purchaser  in  New 
York,  but  hitherto  of  no  use  to  anybody  in  Bar- 
tonvale.  Miss  Beaulieu  dropped  upon  the  floor 
like  a  child,  and  drew  out  book  after  book  with 
trembling  fingers.  Ah,  there  were  such  old  friends 
there  !  Romances  she  had  read  aloud  to  her  aunt 
till  her  eyes  could  see  no  more  ;  stories  she  had 
laughed  and  cried  over  as  a  little,  little  girl ;  and 
here  was  Balzac,  whom  her  aunt  had  admired  so 
much,  and  Dumas,  —  yes,  dear  old  Dumas, — Les 
Trois  Mousquetaires,  and  Vingt  Ans  Apres,  La 
Tulipe  Noire,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  here  were 
books  by  a  new  generation  of  writers  whom  she 
did  not  know,  —  Erckmann-Chatrian,  and  About, 
and  Alphonse  Daudet. 

A  tiny  bell  struck  from  the  oak  desk.  "We 
close  at  six  on  Fridays,"  said  the  librarian, 
approaching  the  alcove,  and  smiling  to  see  the 
tall  visitor  crouching  hungrily  over  her  discov 
eries. 

Miss  Beaulieu  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 
She  had  Daudet's  Jack  in  her  hand. 

"  May  I  take  this  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

Miss  Thayer  led  the  way  to  the  desk,  and  took 
the  number,  and  Miss  Beaulieu's  name,  which  she 
was  obliged  to  ask  to  have  spelled  for  her.  Then 
she  watched  the  girl's  slender,  retreating  figure  as 
it  disappeared  through  the  vestibule,  and  decided 
that  no  visitor  with  exactly  that  air,  at  once  timid 


66  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  proud,  had  thus  far  entered  the  hospitable 
doors  of  the  Atwood  Library. 

Miss  Beaulieu  came  the  next  day  and  the  next. 
She  read  Jack  and  Le  Petit  Chose  and  La  Belle 
Nivernaise.  Then  she  stopped  coming,  except  on 
Saturday  evenings. 

"  You  do  not  come  in  the  afternoons  any  more," 
said  Sally  Thayer  one  evening,  trying  to  make 
friends  with  her. 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  shy  answer.  "  I  have  work 
now.  I  work  in  the  Plate  Shops." 

In  response  to  a  poster  calling  for  extra  hands  at 
the  Atwood  Works,  Esther  Beaulieu  had  presented 
herself,  with  a  dozen  other  women,  and  was  the 
first  to  be  chosen  by  the  foreman.  She  was  adroit 
with  her  fingers  and  eager  to  learn,  and  in  two  or 
three  days  she  took  her  seat  at  the  bench  with 
the  rest.  It  was  mechanical  work  for  the  most 
part,  and  her  deft  touch  and  natural  intelligence 
supplied  the  place  of  experience.  She  earned  six 
dollars  from  the  very  first,  and  began  to  feel  again 
that  she  was  winning  in  the  battle  with  the  Plated 
City.  The  other  women  at  the  bench  were  appar 
ently  friendly,  though  she  made  no  effort  at 
acquaintance  with  them.  In  the  evening  she 
walked  or  rode  in  the  new  electric  cars  with  Tom. 
When  he  was  out  of  town,  she  read  Daudet.  Tom 
had  growled  at  first  about  her  working  in  the 
Shops,  thinking  that  it  was  too  hard  for  her ;  but 
seeing  how  much  happier  Esther  was  to  be  earn- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  67 

ing  something,  lie  concluded  with  characteristic 
optimism  that  it  was  a  fine  place  for  her,  very 
much  better  than  teaching  school.  His  own 
progress  toward  social  rehabilitation  was  slow. 
The  rumor  got  around  town  that  Tom  Beaulieu, 
at  this  late  day,  was  going  to  set  up  for  a  white 
man,  and  everybody  laughed  at  him,  though  not 
to  his  face.  His  physical  prowess  and  almost  per 
petual  good  nature  made  him  a  pet  in  Bartonvale  ; 
and  the  familiarity  with  which  he  was  treated  was 
often  a  cover  for  a  patronizing  tolerance  which  a 
keener  witted  man  would  have  fiercely  resented. 
The  Plated  Citys  won  game  after  game  through 
out  July,  and  Beaulieu  mistook  somewhat  his 
popularity  as  a  ball-player  for  an  evidence  that 
Bartonvale  approved  of  his  new  role  of  Anglo- 
Saxon.  The  colored  quarter  was  secretly  jealous 
at  his  leaving  Cyrus  Calhoun's,  though  inclined 
to  lay  most  of  the  blame  for  this  upon  Tom's 
"stuck-up"  sister.  But  very  little  of  this  hostile 
gossip  reached  the  ears  of  the  Beaulieus,  and  day 
by  day  they  grew  fonder  of  each  other,  and  proud 
of  their  ability  to  stand  alone.  Once  or  twice  they 
even  ventured  to  go  to  church.  St.  Asaph's  ap 
peared,  upon  inquiry,  to  resemble  most  nearly 
the  English  chapel  which  Esther  had  attended  in 
Quebec,  and  Tom  with  decorous  curiosity  watched 
Whitesyde  Trellys  go  through  the  service.  He 
had  a  rather  vague  idea  as  to  what  it  was  all  about, 
but  St.  Asaph's  was  unquestionably  more  "high- 


68  THE  PLATED   CITY 

toned "  than  the   African   Methodist   church  on 
Nigger  Hill,  and  Tom  was  satisfied. 

In  a  word,  everything  seemed  once  more  to  be 
going  tolerably  well  with  the  Beaulieus,  until  that 
sultry  noonday  when  Esther  lingered  in  the  Plate 
Shops  over  her  work,  and  the  blue  heron  took  her 
part  against  the  foreman.  But  that  one  minute's 
experience  terrified  the  girl  more  than  all  that  had 
gone  before.  It  was  a  sudden  revelation  of  her 
helplessness.  With  a  kind  of  haughty,  virginal 
unconsciousness  of  evil  she  had  been  walking  on 
the  brink  of  abysses.  She  understood  now  what 
Tom  meant  by  saying  that  Bartonvale  was  a  rough 
town.  Faithful,  strong-armed  Tom  could  not 
always  be  by  her  side.  Ah,  what  a  brute  world  it 
was  !  It  sickened  her  to  think  of  it.  There  was 
no  one  whom  she  could  ask  what  she  ought  to  do. 
Tom  was  playing  out  of  town  again,  and  might 
be  gone  for  two  days  more.  All  the  afternoon 
she  lay  on  the  cheap  little  bed,  too  wretched  to 
think  clearly,  disheartened  and  solitary.  But  the 
next  morning,  fearing  she  would  lose  her  position, 
she  crept  over  to  the  Plate  Works,  and  took  her 
seat  at  the  bench.  To  her  relief,  the  foreman  was 
not  there,  nor  did  he  appear  that  day.  The  blue 
heron's  place  by  the  lathe  was  also  vacant:  its 
owner  had  received  peremptory  orders  from  the 
office  to  wring  its  neck  or  let  it  go,  and  the  king 
of  the  marshes  was  already  in  the  hands  of  a  taxi 
dermist.  When  the  foreman  reappeared  on  the 


THE  PLATED  CITY  69 

third  day,  he  wore  a  plaster  on  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  and  the  workmen  joked  him  about  the  scien 
tific  fashion  in  which  his  eyes  had  been  blackened 
for  him.  He  took  no  notice  of  Esther  Beaulieu, 
and  her  connection  with  the  affair  was  unsuspected 
by  any  one  in  the  room.  Tom  returned  that  day, 
however,  and  in  the  noon  hour  she  told  him,  fright 
and  indignation  still  vibrating  in  her  voice.  He 
scowled  and  then  laughed,  clenching  his  fingers 
meaningly. 

"You  won't  kill  him,  Tom?"  she  entreated. 

He  was  amused.  "  Kill  him  for  trying  to  kiss 
you  ?  Well,  hardly.  But  he  won't  try  it  again  : 
not  if  my  name  is  Tom  Beaulieu." 

At  six  o'clock  that  very  evening,  as  the  fore 
man  was  crossing  the  old  bridge,  his  coat  on  his 
arm  and  his  lips  puckered  to  a  tune  that  had  just 
travelled  Bartonvale-ward  from  the  Bowery,  the 
ball-player  suddenly  blocked  his  path. 

"  Put  up  your  hands,  Dibble,"  demanded  Beau- 
lieu  succinctly. 

The  other  eyed  him  irresolutely,  and  shifted  his 
coat  to  his  left  arm.  Since  Tom  Beaulieu  was  a 
boy,  no  man  in  Bartonvale  had  dared  stand  up  to 
him. 

"  Oh,  come,  Tom,"  wheedled  the  foreman,  divin 
ing  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  from  Beaulieu's  face. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you?  That  was  only  a 
joke,  the  other  day.  Come,  take  a  drink  :  it  was 
on  me,  anyway." 


70  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Put  up  your  hands  !  " 

"  Now  look  here,  Beaulieu,  I  don't  want  to  have 
a  row  with  you."  He  was  glancing  furtively  for 
the  Bridge  policeman. 

"  I  see  you  don't,"  was  the  contemptuous  re 
joinder.  "  And  I  knew  d — d  well  you  wouldn't. 
But  all  the  same  I'm  going  to  — " 

"  Police  !  "  yelled  the  foreman.  Instantly  the 
tough  fingers  of  the  ball-player  were  around  his 
throat,  and  he  was  rushed  backward  against  the 
rickety  rail  of  the  old  foot  bridge.  It  bent  under 
the  weight  of  the  furiously  struggling  men.  The 
throng  of  homeward-hurrying  workmen,  already 
pressing  upon  the  combatants  from  either  side, 
gave  an  involuntary  cry  of  alarm.  But  Beau- 
lieu  tore  himself  loose  from  his  antagonist's 
grasp,  and  still  keeping  his  left  hand  clenched 
upon  the  foreman's  throat,  caught  him  cleverly 
by  the  waistband,  and  swung  him  clear  of  the 
bridge,  out  over  the  black  still  water  of  the  Mat- 
tawanset. 

"  Apologize,"  he  hissed,  "  or  in  you  go  !  " 

The  foreman's  face  was  growing  a  ghastly  pur 
ple.  Beaulieu  shook  him  like  a  terrier. 

"  Apologize  !  " 

The  fellow's  eyes  rolled,  and  his  lips  murmured 
something,  whereupon  the  ball-player  heaved  him 
back  over  the  rail,  and  jerked  him  to  his  feet. 

"  All  right.  Now  don't  you  forget  it !  "  growled 
the  victor,  sauntering  off  through  the  admiring 


THE  PLATED   CITY  71 

crowd,  who  wondered  what  in  the  world  could 
have  provoked  Tom  Beaulieu  into  a  fight. 

When  Esther  listened  to  Tom's  laconic  account 
of  this  transaction,  she  had  misgivings  as  to  the 
consequences,  and  the  event  proved  that  she  was 
right.  The  next  Friday  was  pay  day,  and  as  the 
hands  filed  past  the  paymaster's  grated  window  in 
the  office,  Esther  Beaulieu's  envelope  was  marked 
with  a  blue  cross.  She  did  not  understand  its 
significance  at  first,  but  the  woman  next  her  in 
the  line  said,  "  I'm  sorry,"  and  other  heads  were 
turned  to  look  at  her,  some  in  pity,  and  some 
with  covert  satisfaction.  Then  she  guessed  that 
something  was  wrong.  When  everybody  else  had 
been  paid  off,  she  timidly  stepped  back  to  the  win 
dow,  and  pointed  to  the  blue  cross  on  her  envelope. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  means  that  you  have  been  laid  off, "  replied 
the  paymaster,  not  unkindly. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  demanded,  a  fierce  suspicion  taking 
possession  of  her. 

The  paymaster  shook  his  head.  "We  in  the 
office  don't  know  anything  about  what  goes  on  in 
the  shops,"  he  explained.  "  It's  for  the  foremen 
to  say  what  help  they  want.  I  suppose  work  was 
slack  again  in  the  etching-room  and  some  one  had 
to  leave.  The  foreman  said  nothing  to  us  about 
any  fault  he  had  to  find  with  you.  Your  time  is 
all  right,  — 16.75,  — isn't  it?"  He  turned  back 
to  his  empty  envelope  tray. 


72  THE  PLATED  CITY 

The  girl  still  stood  at  the  window,  her  proud 
eyes  filling  with  tears.  She  was  impotent.  At 
that  moment  Dr.  Atwood  himself  bustled  out  of 
the  inner  office,  buttoning  his  driving-gloves,  and 
stopped  to  ask  the  paymaster  a  question.  Miss 
Beaulieu  recognized  the  President  of  the  Works, 
and  looked  at  him  appealingly  a  moment,  before 
she  could  find  the  words  she  wanted. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     Is  this  Dr.  Atwood  ?  " 

Something  in  the  foreign  accent  or  the  expres 
sion  of  the  girl's  face  caught  his  attention. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  said.  "  I'm  Dr.  Atwood ; 
yes."  Then  he  saw  the  blue  cross  upon  her  en 
velope,  and  wished  she  had  not  spoken  to  him. 
He  always  hated  to  discharge  a  hand,  and  this 
elaborate  method  of  doing  it  by  proxy  was  his 
own  device. 

"I  don't  want  to  stop  work,"  she  said.  "I 
can't.  I'm  doing  my  very  best.  Won't  you  please 
keep  me,  and  let  me  try  in  some  other  room?  I'll 
work  for  almost  nothing." 

"That's  the  sort  of  hands  we're  after,  nowa 
days,"  the  Doctor  replied,  with  a  grim  effort  at 
humor. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  added,  turning  to  the  pay 
master. 

"  Dibble  laid  her  off,  that's  all  I  know,"  said  the 
paymaster,  testily,  beginning  to  lock  the  safe.  It 
was  already  ten  minutes  after  six,  and  his  bicycle 
was  leaning  against  the  office  steps,  waiting  for  him. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  73 

"  Sorry,"  said  the  Doctor,  turning  to  the  grated 
window,  "  very  sorry  always  to  lose  a  good  hand. 
But  it's  the  foreman's  business,  not  mine.  It 
wouldn't  do,  'twouldn't  do.  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  failed  to  com 
prehend.  From  the  way  the  operatives  had  talked, 
she  had  always  supposed  that  the  "  old  man  "  was 
omnipotent. 

"  You'd  better  go  now,"  said  the  paymaster, 
impatient  to  mount  his  wheel. 

The  irascible  owner  of  the  Plate  Works  turned 
upon  his  subordinate. 

"  I'm  doing  the  talking  just  now,  Marvin,"  he 
sputtered,  greatly  to  the  delight  of  the  two  office 
boys.  "  If  the  young  woman  has  anything  to  say, 
this  office  is  the  place  to  say  it."  He  peered  over 
his  glasses  at  the  discharged  operative  and  sud 
denly  discovered  that  this  was  the  girl  Sally 
Thayer  had  talked  about  at  the  ball  game. 

"  What's  your  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"Esther  Beaulieu." 

"  French,  ain't  it  ?  "     She  nodded. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  Works  ?  " 

Mr.  Marvin  turned  his  back  sulkily  upon  this 
exhibition  of  the  "  old  man's  "  eccentricity. 

"  Four  weeks.  And  they  all  told  me  I  learned 
fast.  I  tried  so  hard." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry.  Perhaps  we  may  have  a 
place  again  for  you  by  and  by.  You  can  leave 
your  address  with  the  bookkeeper." 


74  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  tears  were  brimming  again  in  her  eyes, 
though  the  pose  of  her  head  was  strangely  defi 
ant.  She  twisted  the  envelope  in  her  slender 
fingers  and  looked  first  at  it  and  then  at  Dr. 
Atwood.  Finally  she  turned  away,  without  a 
word. 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  soft-hearted  autocrat. 
"  Marvin,  didn't  that  Fennessey  girl  in  the  brush- 
backing  room  leave  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Marvin,  sulkily. 

"  Well,  why  not  give  this  girl  a  chance  there, 
unless  Dibble  has  some  fault  to  find  with  her  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  can  be  done,"  replied  Marvin,  with 
the  dignity  of  a  man  who  washed  his  hands  of  an 
indiscretion. 

"  Can  be  done  ? "  exclaimed  the  Doctor.  "  I 
rather  guess  it  can  be  done,  and  will  be  done.  I'll 
speak  to  Jenkins  about  it  myself.  You  report 
here  to-morrow  morning,  Miss  Bowlyer  ;  that's  all 
you'll  have  to  do.  Or  wait  a  minute  ;  I'll  show 
you  where  to  go.  Come  with  me."  He  kicked 
open  the  spring-gate  that  barred  the  inner  office 
from  the  hall,  and  led  the  way  up  a  flight  of  stairs 
to  a  tiny  room,  flooded  with  sunlight.  The  bench 
was  covered  with  silver  plated  backs  for  brushes, 
waiting  to  be  slipped  over  the  wooden  forms. 

"See?"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  picked  up  the 
back  of  a  hair-brush,  and  slipped  it  into  place, 
fastening  it  by  a  blow  of  a  light  hammer.  "  Don't 
you  suppose  you  can  do  it  ?  " 


THE  PLATED    CITY  75 

"  I  think  so,"  said  the  girl,  eagerly.  "  I  am 
very  grateful,  Dr.  Atwood.  And  you  won't  let 
anybody  turn  me  away  ?  " 

"Pshaw!"  replied  the  Doctor,  bluffly.  "No 
body  wants  to  turn  you  away.  You  can  work  in 
this  little  room  all  by  yourself,  and  if  you  have 
any  trouble,  let  me  know.  I'll  keep  a  lookout  for 
you." 

They  were  out  in  the  main  room  now,  and  as 
the  Doctor,  with  pardonable  egotism,  swept  his 
eye  over  the  product  of  twenty-five  years  of  suc 
cess,  he  added,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  :  "  The 
fact  is,  that  in  the  Atwood  Plate  Works,  what  the 
'  old  man '  says,  goes." 


THE  PLATED   CITY 


AMONG  the  many  virtues  of  the  Rev.  White- 
syde  Trellys  was  a  consuming  interest  in  the  wel 
fare  of  what  he  termed  "the  working  classes." 
Whenever  he  dined  with  his  parishioners  of  the 
Hill,  he  endeavored  conscientiously  to  turn  the 
conversation,  at  some  feasible  moment,  to  the  sub 
ject  of  the  moral  elevation  of  his  far  more  numer 
ous  parishioners  of  the  Flats.  His  zeal  for  the 
projected  Norman  church,  —  with  rectory  attached 
—  over  the  detailed  plans  for  which  he  had  spent 
many  a  delightful  hour  with  Craig  Kennedy,  was 
grounded,  he  felt  sure,  in  his  conviction  of  the 
value  of  aesthetic  surroundings  in  developing  a 
religious  consciousness  in  the  American  working- 
man.  He  rejoiced  at  his  ex-officio  appointment  as 
one  of  the  directors  at  the  Atwood  Library ,  chiefly 
because  of  the  opportunity  it  afforded  him  to  be 
come  acquainted  with  the  reading  habits  of  some 
of  the  attendants  upon  St.  Asaph's  church.  A 
secondary  cause,  however,  as  he  was  willing  to 
admit  to  himself,  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  librarian 
was  Miss  Sally  Thayer. 

Since  the  close  of  the  tennis  season,  the  previous 
year,  when  Miss  Thayer  and  he  had  been  victori- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  77 

ous  in  the  mixed  doubles,  Trellys  had  suffered 
from  the  lack  of  a  suitable  topic  of  conversation  with 
his  former  partner.  Not  that  she  suffered  from 
any  inability  to  converse.  She  was  if  anything 
too  fluent.  She  traversed  easily  the  surface  of  a 
variety  of  themes,  and  always  dismissed  him  with 
the  feeling  on  his  part  that  she  had  been  amusing 
herself.  Tennis,  now,  she  had  taken  seriously. 
There  he  felt  that  he  really  had  got  at  her  ;  that  in 
the  discussion  of  cuts  and  lobs  and  waiting  games 
she  had  disclosed  her  real  self.  He  rebelled  against 
the  lazy  verdict  of  the  Hill  set,  that  there  was  to 
be  no  tennis  club  this  year.  It  put  him  under  a 
personal  disqualification.  If  Miss  Thayer  were 
only  interested  in  church  architecture,  for  in 
stance,  there  would  be  an  unfailing  topic  of  con 
versation,  by  means  of  which  he  might  once  more 
approach  those  regions  of  delightful  intimacy 
where  he  had  basked  the  summer  before.  But 
Miss  Thayer  did  not  respond  warmly  to  his  enthu 
siasm  for  clerestories  and  reredoses.  She  was 
even  flippant,  to  his  secret  disappointment.  He 
had  long  ago  passed  the  stage  of  acquaintance 
where  he  had  been  critical  of  Miss  Thayer's  per 
son.  He  was  satisfied  that  her  person  pleased 
him  very  much.  Her  nose  might  indeed  have 
been  longer,  but  that  would  perhaps  have  taken 
a  certain  piquancy  from  her  face  ;  her  mouth  was 
the  merest  trifle  larger  than  the  laws  of  conven 
tional  beauty  would  require,  but,  after  all,  when 


78  THE  PLATED   CITY 

she  shut  her  lips  resolutely  as  she  tossed  up  the 
ball  for  that  famous  overhand  service  of  hers, 
there  was  nothing  finer  than  Miss  Thayer's  mouth. 
No,  it  was  the  young  woman's  mind  about  which 
he  had  harassing  moments  of  hesitation.  Was 
she  suited  to  him?  Would  her  mental  processes 
prove,  on  still  closer  investigation,  to  be  wholly 
sympathetic  with  his  own  ?  This  was  a  most  im 
portant  question  for  the  melancholy-looking  rector 
of  St.  Asaph's,  and  he  rarely  came  away  from  an 
evening  inspection  of  the  Atwood  Library  without 
feeling  that  he  had  received  light  upon  it,  in  addi 
tion  to  securing  some  information  as  to  the  reading 
habits  of  the  working  people  of  Bartonvale. 

Sometimes  she  annoyed  him.  She  showed,  for 
instance,  a  perverse  disinclination  to  act  upon  his 
advice.  She  persisted  in  allowing  the  small  boys 
who  flocked  around  her  desk  an  unlimited  quan 
tity  of  Cooper  and  Mayne  Reid,  in  place  of  cer 
tain  other  literature  which  the  new  director 
informed  her  was  far  more  valuable  in  instilling 
proper  ethical  principles  into  the  immature  mind. 
She  shamelessly  encouraged  the  girls  to  read  Miss 
Alcott  and  Mrs.  Whitney.  When  he  had  brought 
her,  printed  as  a  supplement  to  his  religious  peri 
odical  The  Flying  Buttress,  a  list  of  "  Seventy-seven 
Best  Books  for  the  Young,"  for  her  guidance  in 
the  selection  of  the  next  quarter's  instalment  of 
books,  he  was  disheartened  to  discover  that  she 
surreptitiously  dropped  the  list  in  the  waste- 


THE   PLATED   CITY  79 

basket.  Neither  as  a  man,  a  clergyman,  nor  a 
library  director  was  it  easy  for  Whitesyde  Trellys 
to  have  his  admonitions  ignored.  But  'it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  harbor  any  permanent  re 
sentment  against  Sally  Thayer.  She  contradicted 
him  to  his  face,  with  an  impertinence  that  he 
found  after  all  quite  charming ;  she  interrupted 
his  homilies  upon  the  development  of  true  liter 
ary  taste  among  the  masses  with  drawling  com 
ments  in  her  cool  crisp  voice,  at  which  he  was 
forced  to  smile,  though  wanly.  Having  been  led 
at  last  to  reflect  that  an  affinity  based  upon  com 
plementary  qualities  augured  perhaps  as  well  for 
future  happiness  as  one  founded  upon  absolute 
similarity  of  opinions  and  tastes,  —  a  reflection 
which  Trellys  gravely  formulated  to  himself  with 
all  the  complacency  of  a  discoverer,  —  he  pursued 
his  investigation  of  Miss  Thayer's  mind  with  re 
newed  ardor.  He  felt  that  at  almost  any  time 
something  might  occur  to  illuminate  the  entire 
subject  of  the  relation  of  her  mental  processes  to 
his  own.  As  usual,  he  was  right. 

One  August  evening,  as  he  hovered  around  the 
librarian,  shortly  before  the  closing  hour,  a  tall, 
dark  girl  came  out  of  one  of  the  alcoves  and 
approached  the  desk.  The  rector  had  trained 
himself  to  remember  faces,  and  recalled  the  fact 
that  he  had  seen  the  young  woman  once  or  twice 
in  St.  Asaph's.  As  soon  as  she  had  exchanged  her 
books,  he  came  up  to  her  and  put  out  his  hand. 


80  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Good  evening.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  use 
the  Library." 

She  shook  hands  in  an  embarrassed  fashion. 

"  I  have  noticed  you  in  St.  Asaph's,"  lie  went 
on,  "  and  should  have  called  upon  you  before  this. 
May  I  ask  your  name?  " 

"Esther  Beaulieu." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?  " 

"  Esther  Beaulieu."  At  this  juncture  the  libra 
rian  bit  her  lips  and  bent  over  her  desk.  The 
rector's  ear  for  a  French  name  was  no  quicker 
than  hers  had  been,  at  any  rate. 

"  Ah,  thank  you  ;  and  your  address  ?  " 

Miss  Beaulieu  gave  it  to  him,  in  growing  rest 
lessness.  She  was  quite  unused  to  the  pastoral 
function. 

"  I  hope  you  will  find  the  Library  helpful  to 
your  needs.  It  is  an  institution  most  admirably 
adapted  to  supplement  the  home  reading  of  the 
working  classes.  You  already  have  access  to 
some  good  periodical,  I  suppose?  That  is  very 
important  in  affording  a  proper  estimate  of  some 
of  the  great  movements  of  our  own  time." 

"I  have  never  read  the  newspapers,"  said  Miss 
Beaulieu. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  nodded  the  rector. 
"  But  I  did  not  refer  to  the  secular  press.  It  is 
misleading,  as  well  as  vulgar.  There  is,  how 
ever,  a  weekly  paper  that  I  wish  all  the  young 
people  of  our  church  might  read  regularly,  The 


THE  PLATED   CITY  81 

Flying  Buttress.  Have  you  ever  chanced  to  see 
it?" 

Miss  Beaulieu  shook  her  head.  The  conversa 
tion  struck  her  as  very  odd. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  send  you 
a  sample  copy?  It  contains  such  a  full  account 
of  all  our  charitable  work  in  the  great  cities,  — 
a  movement  really  of  extraordinary  interest, — 
and  then  there  are  literary  notes,  and  so  forth,  in 
addition  to  the  more  distinctly  religious  matter. 
Perhaps  you  may  wish  to  subscribe  for  it." 

The  girl  betrayed  no  particular  enthusiasm,  and 
it  occurred  to  Trellys  that  he  was  talking  some 
what  in  the  dark. 

"  Well,  I  hope  we  may  continue  to  see  you  every 
Sunday,"  he  remarked,  shifting  his  ground  a  little. 
"  You  have  been  —  ah  —  confirmed  elsewhere,  have 
you  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Beaulieu,  looking  down  at 
him  with  her  great  eyes.  "  My  aunt  used  to  send 
me  to  an  English  chapel  in  Quebec,  but  it  was  to 
learn  the  English.  She  would  not  have  allowed 
me  to  be  confirmed ;  she  was  —  I  do  not  know 
your  word  for  it,  —  Voltairienne,  —  a  disciple  of 
Voltaire."  And  at  this  she  gave  the  puzzled 
rector  a  grave,  hesitating  bow,  and  retreated. 

As  she  disappeared  through  the  outer  door,  he 
turned  solemnly  to  Sally  Thayer. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  she  said  about  being  con 
firmed?" 


82  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Thayer,  in  one  of  those  in 
consequential  tones  that  occasionally  tried  him  so 
much.  "  I  was  looking  at  her  bonnet.  I  thought 
I  knew  something  myself  about  trimming  a  bon 
net  ;  but  I  don't.  That  girl  drives  me  to  despair 
whenever  she  comes  in.  I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder 
if  she  makes  her  own  dresses,  too.  There  isn't 
any  one  in  Bartonvale  who  can  fit  you  like  that. 
Didn't  you  notice  ?  " 

The  rector  shook  his  head  and  changed  the 
subject.  "  I  should  be  a  little  curious,  now,  to 
see  what  sort  of  books  she  reads.  What  did  she 
bring  back  ?  " 

Miss  Thayer  had  grown  quite  used  to  Trellys's 
little  curiosities  of  this  kind,  and  she  picked  up 
the  top  book  of  a  pile  at  her  left,  with  a  perfunc 
tory  air  that  escaped  his  attention.  She  glanced 
at  the  title  page,  and  held  it  out  to  him.  "  I  can't 
pronounce  it  decently,"  she  said.  It  was  Fromont 
Jeune  et  Risler  Ain£.  "  She  just  drew  Numa 
Roumestan" 

"  Who  wrote  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  same  author,  —  Daudet.  She's  taking 
a  regular  course  of  Daudet  nowadays.  I'm  glad 
to  have  somebody  read  those  French  books  and 
get  some  use  out  of  them.  They  take  up  six 
whole  shelves."  Miss  Thayer  yawned  a  little,  and 
prepared  to  close  the  rolling  top  of  her  desk. 

"  I  don't  believe  Daudet's  books  are  fit  for  any 
young  woman  to  read,"  broke  out  the  rector. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  83 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Sally 
Thayer,  humbly.  "  I've  never  read  any  of  them." 

Neither  had  Mr.  Trellys.  But  he  omitted  to 
say  so. 

"It  is  very  clear  to  me,"  went  on  the  new 
director,  dogmatically,  "  that  we  as  officials  of  this 
Library  are  delinquent  in  our  duty  if  we  allow 
such  books  to  be  disseminated.  They  have  already 
wrought  irreparable  mischief  to  the  reading  public 
in  this  country."  And  on  he  marched  into  a  sum 
mary  of  his  opinions  upon  the  deleterious  influ 
ence  of  Gallic  literature  upon  the  Anglo-Saxon 
mind.  Miss  Thayer  had  already  heard  him  read 
a  fervid  paper  upon  the  subject  before  the  Barton- 
vale  Ladies'  Club,  and  thought  he  ought  to  have 
remembered  the  fact,  especially  as  it  was  now 
after  library  hours. 

She  pulled  down  the  desk  top  with  perhaps  a 
little  more  vigor  than  was  necessary.  With  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Trellys's  opinions  she  had  no  particular 
quarrel,  and  she  had  a  decided  liking  for  many 
things  about  Trellys  himself,  but  she  was  inclined 
to  resent  his  imputation  that  she  had  been  a 
faithless  librarian. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  on  the  other  hand,"  she  said, 
rising,  "  that  people  who  come  in  here  must  learn 
to  judge  for  themselves  what  books  they  want." 

"That  is  exactly  the  point,"  pursued  the  rector, 
eagerly.  "  Are  they  capable  of  judging  for  them 
selves?  They  are  not.  It  is  our  duty  to  judge 


84  THE  PLATED   CITY 

for  them.  We  should  see  to  it  that  not  a  single 
book  which  fails  to  secure  our  approbation  is  put 
upon  the  shelves  of  the  Library." 

"We  have  fifteen  thousand  books,"  she  replied, 
with  the  air  of  one  engaged  in  mathematical  com 
putation.  "  It  would  take  some  time  for  any  one 
to  pass  judgment  upon  them  all !  And  it  would 
never  do  for  me  to  be  the  censor;  I  should  be  so 
lazily,  dangerously  lax !  Come  now,  don't  you 
think  I  would  ?  You  have  practically  said  so. 
And  the  German  books  I  couldn't  read  at  all, 
and  the  French  ones  would  have  to  be  very  easy! 
There's  poor  Dr.  Atwood.  You  might  try  him. 
He  has  to  buy  all  the  books  anyway;  you  might 
make  him  read  them.  Isn't  that  a  good  idea  ! 
Dear,  dear,  wouldn't  I  like  to  hear  his  comments 
on  George  Meredith,  for  instance,  or  Henry  James! 
I'm  going  home  now,  Mr.  Trellys ;  would  you 
mind  turning  out  the  gas  ?  " 

But  the  new  director  was  not  thus  flippantly  to 
be  put  aside.  He  extinguished  the  burners  in  the 
alcoves,  while  Miss  Thayer  gathered  up  her  gloves, 
and  a  new  book  or  two  for  her  mother.  Then  he 
returned  obstinately  to  his  text. 

"  If  Dr.  Atwood  hasn't  leisure  to  take  the  re 
sponsibility,"  he  persisted,  interpreting  her  with 
a  literalness  that  was  one  of  his  least  interesting 
traits,  "then  it  must  be  taken  by  others.  The 
directors  ought  to  decide  what  books  shall  be 
drawn,  and  by  whom.  For  instance,  I  object 


THE  PLATED   CITY  85 

most  decidedly  to  a  young  woman  in  my  parish 
getting  Daudet's  novels  at  this  library.  I  in 
tend  to  bring  the  matter  up  at  the  quarterly 
meeting  Wednesday,  and  to  put  the  directors  on 
record." 

"  You'd  better  stand  by  the  door,"  responded  the 
librarian ;  "  I'm  going  to  turn  the  desk-light  out 
now." 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  she  brushed  past 
him  in  the  dusk.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
uncomfortably  conscientious  about  other  people's 
business. 

"  As  you  like,"  she  said,  "  as  to  the  directors' 
meeting.  But  aren't  you  making  a  good  deal  of 
what  is  really  a  small  matter?" 

"Morally  speaking,"  said  the  rector  of  St. 
Asaph's,  "there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  small  mat 
ter." 

From  this  ex-cathedra  deliverance  she  had  not 
the  courage  to  dissent,  and  they  went  down  High 
Street  side  by  side.  But  Miss  Thayer  was  con 
scious  of  vexation  with  him,  and  he  was  not 
particularly  happy  in  his  endeavors  to  elicit  a 
confidential  interchange  of  feelings  upon  the  old 
subject  of  the  defunct  tennis  club. 

On  the  day  of  the  directors'  meeting,  Trellys 
kept  rigidly  to  his  word.  The  more  he  reflected, 
the  more  convinced  he  became  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  interpose  some  barrier  between  non-examined 
Gallic  fiction  and  the  working  classes  of  Barton- 


86  THE  PLATED   CITY 

vale,  as  represented  by  Miss  Esther  Beaulieu.  He 
had  called  upon  the  young  woman,  and  though  she 
was  engaged  that  afternoon  in  the  brush-backing 
room  at  the  Atwood  Works,  he  left  his  card  and 
a  sample  copy  of  The  Flying  Buttress.  By  what 
he  would  fain  have  considered  something  deeper 
than  a  singular  coincidence,  that  very  issue  con 
tained  a  review  of  Numa  Roumestan,  apropos  of 
an  English  translation,  and  in  connection  there 
with  a  general  arraignment  of  Daudet  and  most 
of  his  fellow-workers  in  French  fiction.  It  was 
written  in  The  Flying  Buttress's  well-known  vein 
of  self-righteous  defamation,  and  Trellys  had 
marked  the  margin  with  carmine  ink,  before 
leaving  the  paper  at  Miss  Beaulieu's  door. 

His  own  copy  he  brought  with  him  to  the 
directors'  meeting,  together  with  some  pencilled 
notes  from  his  paper  on  Gallic  literature  before  the 
Ladies'  Club.  Whenever  Whitesyde  Trellys  deter 
mined  to  make  a  certain  point,  he  also  made  fit 
preparation  for  hammering  his  point  in :  it  gave 
both  his  preaching  and  his  tennis-playing  an  ex 
asperating  air  of  finality.  As  he  took  his  seat  at 
the  long  library  table  that  Tuesday  afternoon,  a 
trifle  late,  he  glanced  over  his  fellow-directors  in 
an  effort  to  determine  the  probable  difficulty  of 
bringing  them  to  his  point  of  view.  The  attend 
ance,  as  it  chanced,  was  slender.  Most  of  the 
clergymen  in  Bar  ton  vale  were  enjoying  their  an 
nual  vacations,  and  besides  Trellys,  who  was  con- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  87 

scientiously  opposed  to  taking  a  summer  holiday, 
a  bushy-haired,  bass-voiced  Methodist  was  the 
only  minister  present.  Beyond  him  sat  one  of 
Trellys's  own  vestrymen,  a  successful  stove-dealer. 
Then  came  the  superintendent  of  schools,  and  a 
middle-aged  farmer  from  the  outskirts  of  Barton- 
vale.  Dr.  Atwood  had  been  unexpectedly  called 
to  New  York,  some  one  said,  and  on  motion  of 
the  Methodist  minister  the  chair  was  taken  by 
Norman  Lewis,  a  slender-bodied,  brown-bearded 
lawyer  of  thirty-four  or  five,  with  a  big  forehead, 
gentle  observant  eyes,  already  slightly  crow-footed 
at  the  corners,  and  a  sensitive  mouth,  whose  lines 
had  the  faintest  suggestion  of  irony.  The  chair 
man  was  the  only  person  whom  Trellys  in  his  rapid 
survey  set  down  instinctively  as  a  possible  oppo 
nent.  He  had  always  felt  suspicious  of  Norman 
Lewis.  It  was  beyond  the  rector's  comprehension 
why  some  people  in  Bartonvale  —  Sally  Thayer, 
for  instance  —  should  be  always  quoting  Lewis, 
especially  as  she  knew  him  very  little  and  had  to 
quote  second-hand  through  his  admiring  room 
mate  Kennedy.  But  aside  from  the  chairman, 
who,  after  all,  would  scarcely  feel  inclined  to  join 
the  discussion,  Trellys  felt  sure  of  his  men. 

Miss  Thayer,  arrayed  very  charmingly,  as  the 
rector  thought,  in  a  white  outing  suit,  sat  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  table  from  Lewis,  and  in  her 
capacity  of  stated  secretary  read  with  a  demure 
voice  the  minutes  of  the  last  meeting.  When 


88  THE  PLATED   CITY 

these  had  been  duly  approved,  she  followed  with 
her  own  quarterly  report,  which  contained  the 
usual  statistics  as  to  the  number  and  classification 
of  the  books  drawn,  and  a  recommendation  of  a 
slight  change  in  library  hours  after  the  beginning 
of  the  public  schools  in  September.  The  libra 
rian's  recommendation  was  adopted.  Then  one 
or  two  other  matters  of  detail  were  attended  to, 
and  that  was  all.  The  directors'  meeting  had 
never  been  anything  more  than  a  formality  ;  but 
the  gentlemen  concerned  felt  that  a  half-hour 
once  in  three  months  was  properly  enough  spent 
in  showing  respect  to  the  wishes  of  the  public- 
spirited  founder  of  the  Library. 

"  Is  there  any  other  business  to  come  before  the 
meeting?"  said  the  chairman,  pulling  out  his 
watch,  and  snapping  it  again,  mechanically.  "  If 
not,  it  stands  adj —  " 

"  Mr.  Chairman,"  interrupted  the  new  director, 
rising,  "  I  beg  leave  to  introduce  a  motion  relative 
to  a  certain  matter  which  I  conceive  to  be  of  the 
very  gravest  import." 

He  took  breath,  and,  sweeping  his  eyes  over 
his  auditors,  caught  a  quick,  deprecatory  look 
from  Miss  Thayer.  She  had  not  believed  that 
he  would  really  force  an  issue  upon  the  Beau- 
lieu  girl's  choice  of  books,  and  she  thought  it 
unreasonably  obstinate  of  him.  But  she  had 
been  fairly  warned,  and  the  rector  was  not  now 
to  be  turned  aside,  even  by  a  young  woman 


THE  PLATED   CITY  89 

whose  person  and  whose  mind  had  been  found 
worthy  of  his  approbation. 

"  You  will  all  agree,"  began  Trellys,  glancing  at 
his  notes,  "  that  no  question  pertaining  to  the  wel 
fare  of  the  working  classes  is  more  vital  than  that 
of  the  character  of  the  literature  upon  which  they 
feed.  Important  no  doubt  as  is  the  problem  of 
securing  physical  sustenance,  of  even  greater  im 
portance  will  it  appear  to  the  reflecting,  the  pene 
trating  observer,  that  the  mental  aliment  provided 
for  the  American  working  man  and  working  woman 
should  be  not  only  abundant  in  quantity,  but  in 
quality  pure  from  any  taint.  In  a  Library  like  the 
one  of  which  our  own  city  is  so  justly  proud,  there 
are  thousands  and  thousands  of  books  which  are 
instructive  to  the  mind,  uplifting  to  the  soul,  and 
capable  of  being  cordially  recommended  to  every 
man,  woman  —  I  had  almost  said  child  —  in  Bar- 
tonvale.  No  one  more  appreciates  this  fact,  or  is 
more  graterful  to  the  founder  of  this  Library  —  who 
I  regret  is  not  with  us  to-day  —  than  I  myself. 
There  are,  however  —  " 

"  There  is  no  motion  before  us,  Mr.  Trellys," 
remarked  the  chairman,  quietly. 

Trellys  flushed.  The  directors  good-naturedly 
nodded  their  approval  of  the  chairman's  acumen ; 
and  the  stated  secretary  balanced  her  official  pencil 
upon  her  forefinger  with  a  fine  air  of  indifference. 

"I  will  state  the  motion,  then,"  said  Trellys, 
stiffly. 


90  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  chairman  bowed. 

"I  move  that  all  books  which  appear  open  to 
criticism  on  the  ground  of  their  moral  influence 
be  drawn  only  under  the  expressed  permission  of 
the  directors,  who  shall  hold  themselves  responsi 
ble  for  the  character  of  every  book  hereafter  to  be 
purchased." 

"  This  is  an  important  motion,"  said  the  chair 
man.  "  Kindly  put  it  in  writing  for  the  conven 
ience  of  the  secretary." 

Trellys  bit  his  lip,  but  scribbled  the  wording  as 
nearly  as  he  could  recall  it,  and  sent  it  down  the 
table  to  Miss  Thayer. 

"  When  I  was  interrupted,"  he  continued,  "  I 
was  about  to  say  that,  while  the  Atwood  Library 
is  in  some  respects  admirably  equipped,  in 
others  —  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Norman  Lewis;  "is 
the  motion  seconded  ?  " 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  ;  then  the  stove- 
dealer  loyally  came  to  the  support  of  his  rector 
with  an  abashed  "Second  the  motion." 

"Are  there  any  remarks?"  said  the  chairman. 
"The  Rev.  Mr.  Trellys  has  the  floor." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Trellys,  by  this  time  thoroughly 
nettled,  kept  the  floor  for  fifteen  minutes.  At 
first  he  floundered  badly,  and  got  the  peroration 
of  his  remarks  where  he  had  intended  to  place 
the  introduction ;  but  his  earnestness  made  up 
for  any  defect  in  rhetorical  arrangement,  and 


THE  PLATED   CITY  91 

the  directors  listened  open-mouthed.  They  had 
hitherto  had  no  conception  of  the  capacities  for 
evil  that  were  hidden  in  the  alcoves  all  around 
them ;  nor  had  they  been  aware  of  the  gravity 
of  the  responsibility  which  they  had  so  lightly 
assumed  in  accepting  appointments  as  directors. 
But  Whitesyde  Trellys  made  everything  very 
clear  indeed.  He  swept  from  generals  to  par 
ticulars  ;  from  Milton's  Areopagitica  to  Boccaccio's 
Decameron;  from  the  tendencies  of  Gallic  fiction 
since  the  Third  Empire  to  the  circumstances  in 
which  he  saw  Esther  Beaulieu  draw  Numa  Roume- 
stan  —  without  let  or  hindrance  —  the  very  week 
before.  He  used  plain  language,  as  became  his 
cloth  ;  and  the  secretary,  the  only  woman  in  the 
room,  grew  first  apprehensive,  then  uncomfort 
able,  then  visibly  annoyed  at  his  outspokenness. 
She  began  by  suspecting  that  Mr.  Trellys  might 
say  some  horrid  things,  and  she  ended  by  tapping 
her  foot  upon  the  floor,  in  full  conviction  that  he 
was  perfectly  horrid.  She  stole  a  look  at  the 
chairman  :  his  face  wore  a  quizzical  expression 
which  she  could  not  interpret  in  the  least.  The 
other  directors  gave  every  evidence  of  assenting 
to  the  orator.  To  cap  the  climax,  Trellys  took 
The  Flying  Buttress  from  the  table,  and  read  with 
husky  earnestness  things  that  were  not  only 
horrid  —  she  felt  that  she  could  stand  that  now  — 
but  absurd,  palpably  absurd.  Oh,  that  she  were  a 
man,  to  stand  upon  her  two  feet,  and  make  a  speech  ! 


92  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Yet  when  Trellys  closed  at  last,  and  the  chair 
man  remarked  gravely  that  this  motion  would 
imply  very  radical  changes  in  the  conduct  of  the 
Library,  and  that  he  had  no  doubt  the  directors 
would  be  glad  to  hear  the  opinion  of  the  libra 
rian  upon  the  subject,  Miss  Thayer's  heart  came 
up  in  her  throat,  and  she  shook  her  head  most 
ingloriously.  But  her  own  impotence  made  her 
angrier  than  ever  against  her  old  tennis  partner. 

"  Are  there  any  other  remarks  ? "  asked  the 
chairman ;  whereupon  the  Methodist  minister  re 
called  an  anecdote  about  General  Grant's  aversion 
to  impure  language,  which  he  related  with  con 
siderable  elocutionary  power,  and  which  he  humbly 
trusted  would  throw  some  light  upon  the  question 
at  issue.  The  stove-dealer  remarked  that  he  for 
one  considered  the  Rev.  Mr.  Trellys's  motion  to 
be  well  timed,  and  that  he  would  gladly  see  some 
action  taken  ;  though  as  to  just  what  action  ought 
to  be  taken  under  the  circumstances,  he  was  not 
entirely  clear.  The  superintendent  of  schools, 
speaking  from  the  standpoint  of  one  whose  heart 
was  very  closely  bound  up  with  all  that  pertained 
to  the  moral  welfare  of  the  young,  agreed  on  the 
whole  with  the  stove-dealer.  Last  of  all  spoke 
the  agricultural  member  of  the  board. 

"  I  dunno's  I  quite  got  Mr.  Trellys's  idee,"  he 
reflected  without  rising,  "but  I  understood  him 
to  say  that  we,  or  else  some  one  on  us,  oughter 
read  these  books  as  fast  as  they  come  in,  and  see 


THE   PLATED   CITY  93 

what  they  be.  That  may  be  right,  but  it's  a 
pretty  big  contract  !  My  darter,  now,  started  in 
last  summer  to  read  thirty  Sunday-school  books  a 
week,  to  see  what  ones  was  fit  to  go  into  our 
Sunday-school  library,  and  it  gin  her  insomny, 
—  went  right  to  her  liver,  the  doctor  said.  And 
there's  somethin'  else  we'd  oughter  think  of :  we 
ain't  buyin'  these  books ;  James  Atwood's  buyin' 
on  'em,  and  I  s'pose  he  thinks  they're  all  right,  or 
he  wouldn't  have  'em  here.  Anyhow,  if  any 
one's  goin'  to  have  the  say  about  it,  I  should 
think  it  ought  to  be  Atwood.  I  should  feel  that 
way,  I  guess,  if  'twas  me.  But  I  liked  all  that 
Mr.  Trellys  said, — fustrate,  fustrate." 

The  chairman  waited  a  moment.  He  was 
himself  in  a  combative  mood  by  this  time,  but 
succeeded  in  maintaining  his  air  of  judicial 
impartiality. 

"  If  there  are  no  other  remarks  upon  this  motion, 
it  comes  before  us.  You  will  allow  me,  as  chair 
man,  to  say,  however,  that  the  remarks  of  the 
last  speaker  suggest  an  aspect  of  the  case  which 
we  must  certainly  face.  It  is  unfortunate  that 
Mr.  Atwood  is  not  here.  Possibly  Mr.  Trellys, 
in  consideration  of  that  fact,  would  be  willing  to 
have  the  matter  go  over  until  the  next  quarterly 
meeting.  We  could  in  the  meantime  be  consider 
ing  it  in  all  its  relations." 

Everybody  looked  at  Trellys.  He  shut  his  lips 
doggedly.  Then  he  exclaimed  :  "  If  what  I  pro- 


94  THE  PLATED  CITY 

pose  is  right,  it  would  be  wrong  to  wait  three 
months  before  enforcing  it.  I  should  be  unwill 
ing  to  shirk  an  immediate  duty,  even  at  the  risk 
of  offending  the  donor  of  the  Library.  In  view 
of  the  infinite  interests  that  may  be,  nay,  that  are 
at  stake,  I  object  to  a  postponement." 

Lewis  glanced  up  and  down  the  table.  He  could 
think  of  but  one  other  parliamentary  resource. 

"  The  motion  is  then  before  us  —  unless,"  he 
added  with  a  curious  smile,  "there  is  a  motion 
to  adjourn.  A  motion  to  adjourn  is  always  in 
order." 

"  I  move,"  said  the  cautious  farmer,  "  that  we 
adjourn." 

It  was  not  seconded. 

"  Then,"  said  Lewis,  smiling  more  blandly  than 
before,  but  with  a  noticeable  change  in  the  key  of 
his  voice,  "  I  will  call  the  Rev.  Mr.  Trellys  to  the 
chair.  I  wish  to  speak  in  opposition  to  the 
motion." 

The  surprised  directors  shifted  their  seats  ;  Miss 
Thayer  glanced  gratefully  at  this  unexpected 
champion  of  the  losing  side ;  and  Whitesyde 
Trellys,  with  heightened  color,  stalked  to  the  end 
of  the  table.  But  before  he  could  seat  himself, 
some  one  shook  the  big  door  of  the  Library. 
Miss  Thayer  opened  it,  and  in  bustled  Dr.  James 
Atwood. 

"  Hullo,  Sally ! "  he  exclaimed  cheerfully. 
"  How  d'ye  do  ?  I  came  up  on  the  4.40,  after  all, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  95 

and  thought  I'd  drop  in.  Good  afternoon,  gen 
tlemen.  Still  at  it,  are  you  ?  Well,  what's  the 
discussion?"  The  Doctor  had  made  a  success 
ful  stock  transfer  that  afternoon,  and  was  in 
the  best  of  spirits. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  take  the  chair,  Doctor," 
suggested  Lewis.  "  Mr.  Trellys  was  about  to  do 
so,  in  your  absence.  There  is  a  motion  before  us." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  chair  !  I'll  sit  here."  He 
dropped  into  a  seat  by  Sally  Thayer.  "  What's 
the  motion,  Lewis  ?  " 

"The  secretary  has  the  exact  wording  of  it," 
was  the  reply.  Miss  Thayer  handed  Trellys's 
scrawl  to  the  Doctor,  who  puzzled  over  it  a 
moment  through  his  spectacles,  and  pushed  it 
back.  "Read  it,  Sally;  I  can't." 

The  secretary  read  it,  in  an  alarmed  voice. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  blurted  out  the  Doctor.  "  Read 
it  again." 

She  obeyed. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  Doctor,  good-naturedly. 
"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  the  books  ?  Whose 
motion  is  this,  anyway  ?  " 

"  I  introduced  the  motion,"  spoke  out  Trellys. 

"Why,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Trellys?  I  hadn't 
noticed  you.  Glad  to  have  you  among  us."  The 
Doctor,  in  his  endeavor  to  be  cordial,  stretched 
the  truth  a  little  here. 

"  We  have  already  discussed  the  matter  at  some 
length,"  Lewis  volunteered,  "but  we  haven't 


96  THE  PLATED   CITY 

reached  a  vote.  I  presume  Mr.  Trellys  would 
be  willing  to  give  a  rtsumg  of  his  reasons  for 
bringing  forward  the  motion,  for  Dr.  Atwood's 
benefit." 

Thus  encouraged,  Trellys  got  up  and  began  all 
over  again.  Miss  Thayer  was  conscious  of  a  very 
strong  desire  to  go  home,  but  she  forgot  this,  little 
by  little,  in  her  interest  in  watching  the  Doctor. 
He  sat  gazing  contemplatively  at  Trellys,  and  now 
and  then  twirled  his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  around 
his  thumb.  For  some  time  he  did  not  interrupt : 
holding  the  theory  that  the  first  ten  minutes 
of  a  parson's  discourse  did  not  count.  Then  he 
stopped  twirling  his  hat. 

"  This  ain't  a  Sunday-school  library,  you  know, 
Trellys,"  he  put  in  significantly.  "  It's  for  the 
town." 

The  rector  of  St.  Asaph's  ignored  the  interrup 
tion.  Before  long  the  Doctor  flung  his  hat  on 
the  table,  and  leaned  forward.  The  speaker  had 
finished  his  general  remarks  on  Gallic  fiction,  and 
was  relating  the  incident  of  the  drawing  of  Numa 
Roumestan. 

"  What  did  you  say  the  girl's  name  was  ?  "  Dr. 
Atwood  demanded. 

"  Miss  Beaulieu.  She  has  recently  come  to  Bar- 
tonvale  from  Canada,  and  belongs  to  exactly  that 
class  of  working  girls  who  need  all  the  attention 
we  can  give  them." 

"  Why,   I  know  that  Beaulieu  girl,"  said  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  97 

Doctor.  "  She's  employed  in  my  Plate  Works. 
Seems  to  be  a  nice  straight  girl,  who  minds  her 
own  business.  I  don't  know 'why  she  shouldn't 
pick  out  her  own  books.  What  was  the  matter 
with  the  one  she  drew  ?  "  His  tone  was  rapidly 
losing  its  cordiality. 

"  The  matter  with  it  is  that  it  represents  a 
demoralizing  class  of  books,  that  awaken  and 
stimulate  depraved  tastes.  The  book  itself  treats 
a  forbidden  theme,  and  breathes  a  pernicious 
atmosphere." 

"  So  you  say,"  flung  in  the  Doctor,  bluntly, 
knitting  his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  take  my  word  for  it,  Dr. 
Atwood,"  replied  Trellys,  with  dignity.  "  I  rest 
back  upon  the  authority  of  one  of  the  most 
thoughtful  journals  in  this  country.  Let  me 
read."  He  took  up  his  copy  of  The  Flying  But 
tress,  and  began.  "  '  The  theme  itself  of  Numa 
Roumestan  is  sufficient  to  condemn  it  in  the  eyes 
of  every  pure-minded  person.  The  fading  away 
of  mutual  love  between  a  married  pair,  the 
scheming  — ' ' 

"  Oh,  skip  it  !  "  burst  out  the  irreverent  donor 
of  the  Library.  "  What  do  we  care  what  that 
fellow  thinks  about  it?  Let's  settle  the  matter 
in  the  way  you  propose  yourself.  Sally,  has  the 
girl  brought  that  book  back  yet  ?  " 

Miss  Thayer  stepped  to  the  French  alcove,  and 
returned  with  Numa  Roumestan.  Miss  Beaulieu 


98  THE  PLATED   CITY 

had  as  a  matter  of  fact  not  cared  to  read  it 
through,  and  had  gone  back  to  Alexandre  Dumas 
for  the  present. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  we'll  see  just  what's 
in  that  book,  for  ourselves.  Sally,  I  don't  believe 
you  need  stay  any  longer." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  until  the  big  door  closed 
behind  the  white  outing  suit  of  the  secretary. 

"  All  right,"  remarked  Dr.  Atwood.  "  You  take 
the  book,  Mr.  Trellys,  and  read  us  the  worst  things 
in  it.  We're  none  of  us  boys,  and  I  guess  we  can 
stand  it."  The  directors  leaned  toward  Trellys, 
open-mouthed,  resolute  in  the  cause  of  duty. 

He  fingered  the  leaves,  nervously.  "  Dr.  At 
wood,"  he  said,  Avith  evident  embarrassment, "  you 
will  remember  that  I  did  not  ask  you  to  take  my 
personal  opinion  about  this  book.  I  gave  ample 
authority  for  all  that  I  said.  I  am  more  con 
cerned,  in  any  case,  with  the  general  principle 
than  with  specific  instances.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
this  particular  book  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  —  I 
—  I  have  not  read." 

"  You  haven't  read  it  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  his 
fierce  gray  eyes  kindling.  "  Then  why  in  creation 
are  you  talking  against  it?"  A  look  of  wicked 
enjoyment  crept  into  Norman  Lewis's  face. 

"  I  regard  the  judgment  of  The  Flying  Buttress 
as  far  superior  to  my  own.  In  that  article  which 
you,  sir,  were  unwilling  to  have  read,"- -Trel 
lys  drew  himself  up  stiffly, — "I  have  become 


THE  PLATED   CITY  99 

acquainted  with  the  theme,  the  plot,  and  the 
characters,  and  they  are  equally  objection 
able." 

"  Oh,  well,"  admitted  Dr.  Atwood,  relenting,  "  if 
you  know  as  much  as  that  about  it,  we  shall  get 
along.  Pick  out  what  you  judge  from  the  plot 
would  be  the  likeliest  chapter,  —  I  mean,  of  course, 
the  most  objectionable  chapter,  —  and  let's  hear 
it."  The  stove-dealer  and  superintendent  of 
schools  exchanged  nods  of  assent. 

Trellys  stood  motionless,  the  blood  receding 
from  his  lips.  Norman  Lewis,  with  a  sudden 
suspicion,  watched  him  keenly. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  stammered  the  rector. 

"  Why  ?"  demanded  Dr.  Atwood,  losing  patience 
again. 

The  author  of  the  paper  on  Gallic  literature 
looked  him  in  the  eye  for  one  humiliating  instant, 
and  then  told  the  truth,  like  a  man. 

"I  —  can't  —  read  —  French. " 

"  You  can't  read  French  !  "  roared  the  astonished 
and  indignant  Doctor.  "  Wfry,  I  thought  to  hear 
you  talk,  that  you  were  the  only  man  in  Barton- 
vale  that  could  !  Well,  well,  I  want  to  know  ! " 

Trellys  sat  down. 

The  disappointed  directors  eyed  him  satirically, 
and  then  the  Methodist  minister  broke  into  a  big, 
foolish  laugh. 

"Well,"  he  tittered,  "the  librarian  needn't  have 
gone  out,  Doctor,  after  all !  " 


100  THE  PLATED   CITY 

There  was  general  laughter  at  this  witticism, 
and  then  Dr.  Atwood  rose,  and  wiped  his  spec 
tacles. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  remarked,  "all  I've  got  to 
say  is  this  :  The  purchasing  agent  for  this  Library 
has  orders  to  buy  such  standard  books  as  he  thinks 
we  ought  to  have.  I  always  supposed  he  had  good 
judgment.  It's  been  his  business  to  supply  libra 
ries  for  more  than  twenty  years.  If  the  town  of 
Bartonvale,  however,  doesn't  like  the  way  the 
books  are  bought,  or  the  way  this  Library  is 
managed,  it  can  select  its  own  books,  and  pay 
for  'em.  It's  a  free  country.  That's  all." 

Nobody  said  anything.  Trellys  folded  The  Fly 
ing  Buttress,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  Is  there  any  motion  before  us  ?  "  inquired  the 
Doctor.  "If  not,  we  stand  adjourned." 

Thus  ended  the  Rev.  Mr.  Trellys's  active  interest 
in  the  Atwood  Public  Library.  He  never  attended 
another  directors'  meeting,  nor  was  he  again 
invited  to  read  his  views  on  Gallic  literature 
before  the  ladies  of  Bartonvale.  The  story  of  his 
attempt  to  put  the  directors  on  record  was  related 
by  Norman  Lewis  to  an  appreciative  circle  of  young 
fellows  at  the  Mattawanset  Club,  —  where  the  pool 
tables  were  usually  deserted  whenever  Lewis  could 
be  caught  in  a  story-telling  mood.  Kennedy,  as 
it  happened,  was  not  present,  and  later,  as  he  and 
Lewis  were  smoking  a  bed-time  pipe  on  their 


THE  PLATED   CITY  101 

balcony  above  the  river,  the  story  had  to  be  told 
all  over  again,  while  Kennedy  laughed  till  the 
crazy  little  balcony  shook. 

"And  that  isn't  all,  Craig,"  said  Lewis,  rapping 
the  ashes  out  of  his  briarwood.  "  This  afternoon's 
meeting  has  done  more  than  give  the  freedom  of 
the  Library  to  that  silver  plate  girl  of  dubious 
ancestry  and  literary  tastes.  It  has  settled  some 
thing  else,  unless  I'm  mistaken." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  naturally  didn't  mention  this  aspect  of 
the  situation  up  at  the  Club,  but  I  think  that 
hour's  discussion  killed  whatever  chances  Trellys 
may  have  had  with  Miss  Thayer." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  said  Craig, 
slowly. 

"From  the  way  she  looked  at  him  during  his 
speech.  She  was  watching  him,  and  I  was  watch 
ing  her." 

"Your  old  trick,  Norman." 

"If  you  like.  But  it  has  worked,  some 
times." 

"Not  on  women.  You  can't  tell  anything  by 
the  way  a  woman  looks.  And  what  should  you 
know  about  it,  anyway?"  The  tone  of  the 
younger  man  was  affectionately  impudent. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  have  had  your  opportu 
nities,  my  dear  fellow,"  countered  Lewis,  severely, 
"especially  in  the  observation  of  this  particular 


102  THE  PLATED   CITY 

person.  But  I  think  Whitesyde  Trellys  is  out 
of  it  from  this  time  on.  And  I  notice  you  don't 
contradict  me." 

For  answer  the  architect  emptied  his  pipe 
demurely  upon  the  railing  of  the  balcony,  and 
drawing  a  long  breath,  blew  the  ashes  into  the 
Mattawanset  River. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  103 


VI 

ON  the  evening  of  the  first  of  September,  Nor 
man  Lewis  sat  at  an  old-fashioned  desk  in  a  corner 
of  the  big  room  which  he  shared  with  Kennedy, 
engaged  in  writing.  His  check-book  lay  open 
before  him,  and  the  balance  which  remained  to  his 
credit  after  subtracting  the  check  just  drawn  to 
the  order  of  G.  W.  Lewis  was  very  slender  indeed. 
It  was  an  old  story.  For  nearly  ten  years  now, 
on  the  first  of  every  month,  he  had  sent  West  a 
letter  and  a  check,  and  in  spite  of  everything  the 
letters  had  grown  shorter  and  the  checks  larger 
all  the  while.  Norman  Lewis  had  once  been  boy 
ishly  proud  that  his  father  was  an  inventor,  and 
that  so  many  mills  and  shops  in  the  Plated  City 
could  bear  evidence  to  his  erratic  genius  in  this  or 
that  clever  device.  As  he  grew  old  enough  to 
perceive  that  his  father  always  sold  out  his  inven 
tion  too  early,  or  held  on  to  it  until  some  one  else 
secured  the  patent  rights,  he  began  to  understand 
the  fatal  ineffectiveness  that  accompanied  that 
versatile  inventive  skill.  By  the  time  Norman 
had  finished  reading  law  and  was  beginning  to 
pick  up  a  little  practice,  his  father  yielded  to  the 
Western  fever,  and  being  alone  in  the  world,  ex- 


104  THE  PLATED   CITY 

cept  for  his  son,  migrated  perpetually  from  one 
mining  town  to  another,  always  writing  the  most 
hopeful  letters  back  to  Bartonvale.  Then  it  was 
that  the  checks  began  to  be  necessary,  to  meet 
some  temporary  emergency.  There  was  always 
something  just  waiting  to  be  perfected,  or  to  be 
decided  at  the  patent  office,  or  to  be  passed  upon 
by  a  committee  of  mining  experts  —  a  new  quartz- 
crusher,  or  a  patent  milling  process,  or  a  secret 
method  of  tempering  steel.  When  all  these  proved 
to  be  disappointments,  he  went  buoyantly  into 
wildcat  mining  operations.  Norman  had  a  drawer 
full  of  stock  certificates,  sent  on  as  collateral  to 
accompany  the  notes  which  were  forwarded  punct 
ually  upon  the  receipt  of  the  monthly  checks.  With 
the  notes  also  came  brief  letters,  pathetic  in  their 
gratitude,  pitiful  in  the  unspoiled  eagerness  with 
which  old  George  Lewis  still  looked  forward  to 
the  day  when  his  luck  would  turn.  His  latest 
scheme  was  the  most  ambitious  of  all :  a  Land  and 
Irrigation  Company,  to  operate  in  Southern  Cali 
fornia,  where  half  a  county  could  be  bought  for  a 
song,  because  nobody  but  George  Lewis  had  ever 
thought  of  turning  the  course  of  a  certain  river. 
This  time,  Norman  Lewis  himself,  sick  at  heart  as 
he  had  grown  over  his  father's  visionary  ventures, 
thought  it  Avorth  while  —  and  another  check  —  to 
commission  a  San  Francisco  lawyer  to  examine  the 
Spanish  titles  about  which  his  father  wrote  so  con 
fidently.  The  lawyer's  answer  was  only  a  modifi- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  105. 

cation  of  all  those  other  answers  which  for  ten 
years  the  son  had  trained  himself  to  hear:  the 
titles  were  indeed  perfectly  valid,  but  the  reason 
that  San  Francisco  capital  was  shy  of  the  Lewis 
Land  and  Irrigation  Company  (a  concern  of  which 
Norman  held  the  controlling  stock  —  it  was  all  he 
had  to  show  for  nearly  three  years'  checks)  was  the 
fact  that  Nature  had  ordained  that  a  river  should 
not  run  up  hill,  which  fact  George  Lewis  had 
apparently  forgotten. 

There  was  nothing  for  Norman  Lewis  to  do 
except  to  grin  and  bear  it.  He  grew  used  to 
bearing  it,  but  it  was  not  always  easy  to  grin. 
At  thirty-five,  and  after  a  dozen  years  of  pro 
fessional  work,  his  sole  possessions  —  outside  of 
these  various  notes  and  stocks  —  were  the  slender 
law  library  down  in  his  office,  and  a  few  books 
and  pictures  hung  here  in  the  room  he  shared  with 
Kennedy.  One  thing  else  there  was :  his  collec 
tion  of  foreign  photographs.  His  only  inheritance 
from  his  father  seemed  to  be  a  passion  for  travel, 
and  as  travel  was  simply  out  of  the  question, 
Lewis  stuck  doggedly  to  Connecticut,  and  little 
by  little  filled  a  whole  chest  of  drawers  with  pho 
tographs  of  the  places  he  would  have  liked  to  see. 
The  collection  was  admirably  arranged,  and  Plated 
City  people  who  were  going  abroad  frequently 
came  to  Norman  Lewis  for  advice  as  to  what  they 
ought  to  visit.  Even  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  whom  a 
natural  ambition  and  a  lucky  marriage  had  made 


106  THE  PLATED  CITY 

the  social  leader  of  the  Hill  set,  had  climbed  the 
dingy  stairs  to  Lewis's  room,  before  her  recent 
trip  abroad,  and  begged  him  to  make  out  for  her 
a  two-years  itinerary.  There  was  something  in 
this  chest  of  photographs  that  satisfied  a  repressed 
romanticism  in  Lewis  himself,  even  while  it 
ministered  to  his  sense  of  irony.  Whenever 
the  Plated  City  grew  too  repugnant  to  him,  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  open  a  certain  drawer,  and 
take  a  run  through  Norway,  or  the  English 
Lakes,  or  Southern  France  ;  but  his  own  smile 
at  the  readiness  with  which  he  could  thus  make 
himself  "make  believe"  was  not  always  a  cheer 
ful  thing  to  see.  It  was  like  a  sardonic  footnote 
to  a  dream. 

Craig  Kennedy  had  learned  not  to  interrupt  his 
roommate  when  he  was  in  one  of  these  moods,  and 
had  also  discovered  that  the  monthly  letter  and 
check  were  likely  to  be  the  prelude  to  an  evening 
spent  over  the  photographs.  When  he  strolled 
into  the  room  on  that  September  night,  therefore, 
and  saw  Lewis  pigeon-holing  his  check-book  and 
opening  the  chest-drawers  labelled  "  Italy,"  he  let 
him  alone,  in  spite  of  a  great  temptation  to  the 
contrary.  Crossing  to  his  own  corner,  he  lighted 
the  gas  above  the  big  sloping  table,  covered  with 
sheets  of  thick  paper  and  drawing-instruments, 
where  he  was  wont  to  elaborate  his  "after 
thoughts."  Then  he  got  into  his  working-coat, 
and  sharpened  a  pencil  or  two.  After  all,  he  had 


THE  PLATED   CITT  107 

something  too  good  to  keep  ;  and  it  might  raise 
Lewis's  spirits. 

"  Say,  Norman,"  he  spoke  up,  "  I  met  Trellys 
after  supper." 

Lewis  grunted  in  a  tone  that  would  have  dis 
couraged  most  people  from  further  conversational 
advances. 

"  Yes,  and  I  may  score  you  one  as  a  prophet. 
Remember  what  you  said  after  that  Library  epi 
sode  about  Trellys' s  chance  with  a  certain  young 
woman  ?  " 

Lewis  swung  around  slowly  on  his  squeaking 
swivel  chair. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Perhaps  nothing  of  it,"  said  Kennedy,  gaily, 
"but  I  can't  help  feeling  that  you  hit  it  again, 
that  time.  I  haven't  heard  Miss  Thayer  speak  of 
it,  of  course, — " 

"  Of  course  not,"  interrupted  Lewis,  cynically. 

"  But  guess  what  Trellys  said  to  me  to-night  ?  " 

Lewis  waited. 

"He  wanted  me  to  give  an  estimate  on  the  cost 
of  the  church  and  parish  house,  without  the  rec 
tory.  He  thought  there  would  be  no  immediate 
need  of  a  rectory,  anyway  !  How  is  that  ?  " 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  I'd  figure  it  up  without  the  rectory 
with  pleasure.  Wasn't  that  rather  neat  for  me? 
Quite  worthy  of  my  roommate,  now  wasn't  it  ?  " 

Lewis  gave  a  long  searching  look  into  the  young 


108 


fellow's  frank,  happy  face.  "  Go  in  and  win,  my 
boy,"  lie  said  quietly.  "  Good  luck  to  you  !  "  and 
he  wheeled  around  and  continued  his  scrutiny  of 
the  amphitheatre  at  Verona. 

Craig  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  seated  him 
self  noiselessly  at  his  own  task.  There  was  no 
use  in  trying  to  get  any  talk  out  of  Lewis  until 
his  mood  had  passed ;  he  might  have  known  better 
than  to  interrupt  him.  An  hour  went  by.  There 
was  no  sound  except  the  occasional  rustle  of  the 
elder  man's  photographs,  and  the  scratching  of 
Craig's  pencil  as  he  drew  and  re-drew  the  side  ele 
vation  of  the  stone  house  on  the  Atwood  place. 
Even  swifter  than  the  strokes  of  his  facile  pencil 
rose  the  walls  of  a  castle  in  the  air,  whose  lines 
intermingled  strangely  with  those  upon  his  draw 
ing-board.  To  plan  such  a  house  as  he  would 
like  to  live  in,  and  then  show  it  to  Sally  Thayer 
for  her  approval  —  to  brown-haired,  jolly,  heart-free 
Sally  Thayer  —  ah,  there  was  something  more  de 
lightful  than  drawing  a  Norman  rectory  for  White- 
syde  Trellys  !  Almost  unconsciously,  during  the 
few  weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  his  interview 
with  the  Doctor,  he  had  changed  his  point  of 
view.  His  scruples  about  taking  advantage  of 
his  rival  already  seemed  to  him  a  trifle  Quixotic, 
especially  since  Trellys  had  so  obviously  offended 
Miss  Thayer  in  the  Library  matter.  Trellys  had 
had  all  the  chance  he  deserved,  anyway  !  His  re 
mark  that  evening  about  abandoning  the  idea  of  a 


THE  PLATED   CITY  109 

rectory  for  the  present  had  surely  indicated  that 
Trellys  himself  saw  that  his  cause  was  lost.  Mean 
while  the  architect  had  by  no  means  abandoned 
his  habit,  formed  when  they  were  both  children, 
of  spending  a  good  deal  of  his  time  in  company 
with  Sally  Thayer.  Their  intimacy  was  of  such 
old  standing  that  it  had  never  excited  any  interest 
in  Bartonvale.  The  cousiiiliness  of  the  attach 
ment  was  regarded  by  perhaps  everybody  except 
Norman  Lewis  as  the  best  evidence  in  the  world 
that  nothing  would  ever  come  of  it.  But  ever 
since  Craig  had  begun  to  draw  plans  for  the  big 
stone  house,  he  was  distinctly  aware  of  being  self- 
conscious  while  in  Sally's  company.  One  after 
noon  as  they  were  strolling  down  High  Street 
together,  in  the  shade  of  the  maples,  they  met  Dr. 
Atwood  driving  up.  Peering  mischievously  at 
Kennedy,  he  reined  in  his  horses  long  enough  to 
inquire:  "  How  are  you  getting  on,  Craig  ?  "  which 
simple  question  confused  the  rising  architect  more 
than  any  that  had  been  put  to  him  for  a  long  time. 
He  was  well  aware  that  the  Doctor  did  not  refer 
to  the  state  of  his  health,  nor  the  condition  of  his 
business,  nor  his  progress  with  certain  drawings, 
but  solely  to  his  prospects  of  winning  the  heart  of 
the  young  woman  who  was  walking  innocently  by 
his  side. 

After  all,  why  should  he  not  win  her  if  he 
chose  ?  She  would  still  be  Sally  Thayer,  even  if 
she  were  the  prospective  owner  of  a  great  house 


110  THE  PLATED   CITY 

on  the  Hill.  The  best  use  a  great  house  could  be 
put  to  was  to  place  two  happy  young  people  in  it ; 
that  was  what  houses  were  for.  And  to  think  of 
two  impecunious  young  persons  having  the  chance 
to  work  out  the  very  house  they  would  like  most 
to  live  in,  with  erratic  old  Dr.  Atwood  in  the  role 
of  the  good  fairy  who  should  make  their  dreams 
come  true  ! 

Kennedy  worked  on  rapturously,  growing  little 
by  little  oblivious  of  his  silent  roommate  with  the 
great  forehead  and  sensitive  lips,  who  at  twenty- 
five  might  likewise  have  had  his  castles  in  the  air, 
but  at  thirty-five  had  settled  down  to  photographs. 
Another  hour  slipped  away.  As  a  bell  somewhere 
struck  eleven,  Kennedy  glanced  up  suddenly,  and 
saw  his  roommate,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  with  the 
old  kindness  in  his  eyes.  Lewis  was  himself 
again. 

"Time  to  quit,  Craig,  isn't  it?  You'd  better 
light  up.  How's  it  coming  on?" 

"  Pretty  well,  I  think.  How  do  you  like  that 
outside  chimney  ?  —  I've  changed  it  since  the  other 
night." 

"  Capital !  Have  you  shown  anything  to  the 
Doctor  yet?" 

"  No  ;  oh  no.  He's  in  no  hurry.  He  told  me 
to  take  all  the  time  I  wanted.  I  fancy  he  took  it 
into  his  head  to  see  what  could  be  done  with  the 
Atwood  place  sometime.  The  thing  may  never 
materialize."  Kennedy  had  never  explained,  even 


THE  PLATED   CITY  111 

to  Lewis,  the  exact  terms  of  his  commission  from 
the  Doctor. 

"Meantime,  he's  encouraging  rising  talent,  is 
he?" 

"Don't  you  think  I  need  it?"  replied  Craig, 
putting  away  his  pencils.  "Mrs.  Gascoigne's 
window  is  the  only  work  I've  had  for  a  month. 
And  you  see  I've  just  lost  the  chance  at  that 
rectory." 

"You  mean  Trellys  has  lost  the  chance,"  cor 
rected  Lewis.  "  So  I  told  you  the  other  night. 
There's  the  tobacco." 

Kennedy  flung  himself  contentedly  into  a  loung- 
ing-chair,  and  deigned  no  answer. 

"Well,"  continued  Lewis,  reflectively,  "I  only 
wish  the  Doctor  had  something  for  me  to  do,  too. 
Here's  the  September  term  coming  on  this  week, 
and  I  haven't  a  case  that  goes  up.  I  haven't  had 
so  little  court  business  in  years." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Craig  ;  "  that  reminds  me.  I've 
got  a  job  for  you  myself.  You  needn't  grin. 
There's  a  notary's  fee  in  it,  anyway ;  I  want  to 
have  you  sign  a  paper  for  Tom  Beaulieu." 

"  What  has  Tom  done  now  ?  " 

"He  has  led  the  State  League  in  batting," 
replied  the  director  of  the  Plated  City  team, 
proudly,  "  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his  confounded 
fondness  for  trying  to  pick  up  ground  balls  with 
one  hand,  he  would  have  had  the  best  fielding 
average,  too.  Anyway,  they  want  him  this  Avinter 


112  THE  PLATED   CITY 

in  California.  A  San  Francisco  manager  was  at 
our  directors'  meeting  to-day.  He'll  give  Tom 
two  hundred  dollars  a  month  this  winter,  and  pay 
us  a  good  price  for  his  release,  next  season,  if 
he  wants  him.  The  only  thing  that  balks  the 
scheme  is  this:  wherever  Tom  has  played,  he's 
known  as  a  colored  fellow,  and  the  San  Francisco 
man  says  that  it  won't  do  to  have  a  nigger  on  his 
team.  I  suppose  that's  so.  But  he's  got  hold  of 
this  story  that's  all  over  town  now  —  you've  heard 
it,  haven't  you?  —  to  the  effect  that  Tom  isn't 
colored  at  all,  that  his  mother  was  a  Spaniard,  or 
something  else,  and  that  he  ought  to  have  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  about  his  father.  It's  a  queer 
yarn.  Tom  got  it  off  to  me  last  week,  and  swore 
it  was  true.  They  say  he  collared  one  of  the  Plate 
Works  foremen  on  the  bridge  the  other  night,  for 
pretending  to  disbelieve  the  story,  and  held  him 
over  the  rail  till  he  apologized.  That's  the  first 
time  I  ever  heard  of  Tom  Beaulieu  getting  into 
a  row  with  anybody.  There  would  have  been 
some  fun  in  seeing  that  scrimmage,  eh?" 

"Not  for  me.  My  sporting  sense  isn't  suffi 
ciently  developed ;  not  having  had  a  college 
training,  you  see.  But  that's  a  rather  interest 
ing  situation,  Craig.  I  don't  yet  understand 
where  my  fee  is  coming  in,  though ;  what  use 
have  you  for  a  notary  public?" 

"  Right  here.  The  manager  says  he'll  be  con 
tent  with  some  sort  of  legal  paper,  properly 


THE  PLATED   CITY  113 

signed,  you  know,  bearing  out  Tom's  story.  All 
we  have  to  prove  is  that  to  the  best  of  our  belief, 
Tom's  mother  wasn't  a  colored  woman.  It'll 
mean  two  hundred  a  month  for  Tom  ;  and  won't 
make  the  slightest  difference  to  anybody  else. 
Now  why  can't  you  look  up  old  Calhoun — it's 
his  story,  originally,  as  I  understand  Tom  —  and 
make  out  an  affidavit  to  the  facts?  I  rather 
imagine  from  what  the  manager  said,  that  he 
might  play  Tom  under  a  Spanish  name,  anyway. 
He  thinks  that  would  be  a  drawing  card,  but  he 
wants  the  affidavit  to  fall  back  upon,  in  case  it 
leaked  out  that  Beaulieu  had  passed  as  a  colored 
fellow  here  in  the  State  League.  You  know  we 
had  a  big  fight  with  the  other  teams  before  we 
could  play  him  ourselves.  The  whole  thing  is 
curious  enough,  when  you  stop  to  think  about  it, 
isn't  it?" 

Lewis  nodded,  but  pulled  away  at  his  pipe. 

"  Jupiter ! "  continued  the  younger  man.  "  Think 
of  your  future,  or  of  mine,  turning  upon  an  affi 
davit  !  Or  worse  still,  if  this  story  has  any  foun 
dation,  on  the  decision  of  some  selectman,  twenty 
years  back,  who  probably  never  bothered  his  head 
one  moment  about  the  matter,  one  way  or  another. 
I  never  thought  before  what  a  queer  thing  the 
color  line  is,  anyway.  Why,  it  might  be  that  the 
fellow  who  takes  the  census  could  settle  one's  fate 
for  life." 

"  He  does,"  said  Lewis,  drily.     "  Up  in  Wiscon- 


114  THE  PLATED    CITY 

sin  or  Michigan,  for  instance,  a  man  having  seven- 
eighths  Indian  blood  and  one-eighth  white,  is 
classed  in  the  census  as  a  white  man,  but  let  him 
be  one-eighth  negro  and  seven-eighths  white,  and 
down  he  goes  as  a  darky.  There  you  are.  After 
all,  the  census  fellow  does  nothing  but  register 
what  everybody  else  feels.  The  fault's  in  us  ; 
that  is,  if  there  is  any  fault  in  a  race  feeling  that 
is  born  with  us.  I  suppose  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
would  be  worth  mighty  little  if  it  didn't  feel 
itself  superior  to  everybody  else." 

Kennedy  was  silent.  Sociological  reflections 
were  not  exactly  in  his  line,  though  his  interest 
in  the  ball-player  had  involuntarily  carried  him 
into  them. 

"  I'll  see  Calhoun  if  you  like,  Craig.  That  is,  if 
you  think  it  will  amount  to  anything.  I  should 
be  inclined  to  doubt  that.  Tom  Beaulieu  has 
never  succeeded  at  anything  yet,  has  he  ?  I 
suppose  that  is  why  he  is  offered  two  hundred 
dollars  a  month  for  his  ball-playing  !  Didn't  he 
try  driving  an  express  wagon  once,  or  something 
of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  He's  tried  a  dozen  things.  He  went  over  the 
whole  story  with  me  the  other  day.  The  reason 
why  he's  never  had  any  luck  nor  ever  stuck  to 
anything  long,  he  says,  is  because  the  color  line 
was  always  drawn  on  him  sooner  or  later.  I  tried 
to  talk  that  out  of  him,  but  of  course  he  is  more 
or  less  right.  If  he  doesn't  want  to  turn  barber, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  115 

or  table  waiter,  or  porter,  there  isn't  much  show 
for  him." 

"  There  are  a  dozen  colored  mechanics  in  town. 
There's  old  Calhoun  himself." 

"  Yes  ;  but  between  us,  Tom  Beaulieu  hasn't 
head  enough  for  anything  of  that  sort.  I  couldn't 
say  so  to  him  ;  but  the  fact  is,  he's  a  child,  just  a 
big,  handsome,  good-hearted,  devil-may-care  sort 
of  child.  He  takes  to  ball-playing  by  a  sort  of 
instinct,  but  that's  the  only  thing  requiring  head- 
work  that  Tom's  up  to  at  all.  One  story  around 
town  now  is  that  Tom's  mother  was  crazy  when 
he  was  born,  and  that  the  boy  wasn't  considered 
more  than  half-witted  for  a  while." 

"  Do  you  want  that  in  the  affidavit  ?  "  suggested 
Lewis,  derisively. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  put  in  the  affidavit,  as 
long  as  it  does  a  good  turn  for  Tom.  Perjure 
yourself  as  much  as  you  like.  But  I'm  really 
sorry  for  the  fellow.  He's  a  natural  gentleman, 
which,  between  us,  is  more  than  can  be  said  of 
the  rest  of  the  Plated  City  ball  team.  And  he's 
as  generous  a  fellow  as  ever  lived.  He  talked  to 
me  about  his  sister,  and  do  you  know,  I  more 
than  half  think  that  the  main  reason  for  his  want 
ing  this  California  engagement  is  that  he's  got 
it  through  his  head  that  she  would  be  better 
off  without  him." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  said  Lewis. 

"  You  would  if  you  had  ever  seen  her.     No  one 


116  THE  PLATED    CITY 

would  ever  dream  of  her  being  anything  but 
white  :  of  course,  if  this  Calhoun  story  is  true, 
she  is  white,  —  that  is,  whatever  she  may  be,  she 
isn't  negro,  at  any  rate,  and  that's  all  that  people 
would  ever  ask.  You  haven't  seen  her  yet, 
Norman  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  you'll  lose  your  tough  old  bachelor  head 
over  her,  for  a  day  or  two,  when  you  do.  Make  a 
note  of  it.  She's  as  pretty  a  girl  as  you  care  to 
see,  and  a  nice  girl,  too,  I  suppose,  and  if  she  had 
come  to  Bartonvale  alone,  and  could  have  held 
that  school-teaching  position  which  she  lost  be 
cause  it  leaked  out  that  she  was  Tom  Beaulieu's 
sister,  I  can  tell  you  the  Hill  set  would  have  taken 
her  up  within  two  months.  As  it  is,  she  works  in 
the  Plate  Shops,  and  the  only  pleasure  she  has  is 
in  drawing  French  books  out  of  the  Library ;  and 
that  asinine  Whitesyde  Trellys,  according  to  your 
story,  tried  to  draw  the  line  on  her  even  there." 

"  That  wasn't  because  she  was  colored,"  cor 
rected  Lewis.  "  Give  the  rector  his  due.  He 
was  fighting  for  a  principle  !  But  that  aside,  I 
still  don't  see  how  the  Beaulieu  girl's  position  is 
going  to  be  bettered  by  Tom's  going  away  now. 
The  harm  has  been  done,  hasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  has,"  admitted  Craig,  "  but  I  didn't 
want  to  tell  Tom  so.  It's  clear  enough  that  the 
fellow  thinks  he's  standing  in  her  way.  He  has 
some  vague  idea  that  if  he  can  make  big  wages  in 


THE  PLATED    CITY  117 

California,  he  can  either  support  her,  after  a  little, 
or  at  any  rate,  by  starting  out  new  with  a  clean 
record,  —  as  the  poor  devil  calls  it,  —  can  help 
her  along  socially.  Tom  hasn't  brain  enough  to 
think  the  thing  through,  but  his  heart  is  in  the 
right  place,  and  he  worships  that  half-sister  of  his 
more  than  most  people  in  this  town  worship  God  ! 
It  quite  broke  me  up  to  hear  him  talk  about  her." 

"  Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you,"  said  Lewis, 
betraying  less  sympathy  for  the  younger  man's  en 
thusiasm  than  he  perhaps  felt.  "  Remind  me  in 
the  morning  to  look  up  Cyrus  Calhoun.  But  I 
can't  help  thinking  it's  doing  Tom  Beaulieu  a 
rather  doubtful  service.  It  takes  more  than 
affidavits  to  make  a  man  white  or  black,  in  this 
country.  And  if  tHe  scheme  falls  through,  Tom 
will  be  worse  off  than  he  is  now.  I  should  say 
he'd  better  stay  here,  where  everybody  likes  him, 
and  where  he  can  look  out  for  his  sister.  Barton- 
vale  isn't  the  ideal  city  of  refuge  for  a  girl  entirely 
alone,  with  a  taste  for  romantic  fiction,  and  a 
pretty  face." 

"  There  you  go  !  "  exclaimed  Craig.  "  On  the 
off  side,  as  usual.  Just  get  up  a  good  certifi 
cate  and  don't  bother  about  the  rest.  All  I 
want  is  to  send  Tom  off  contented.  I'm  not 
trying  to  retain  you  in  the  libel  case  of  Beau- 
lieu  vs.  The  Plated  City  !  " 

"  I'm  glad  you're  not,"  said  the  lawyer,  yawning. 
"I'm  going  to  bed.  You  can  count  on  sending 


118  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Tom  away  with  as  big  an  affidavit  as  you  want, 
Craig,  but  I  can  tell  you  it  won't  change  matters 
in  the  least.  He  might  as  well  start  for  Cali 
fornia  with  his  pockets  full  of  my  stocks,  expect 
ing  to  realize  on  them  when  he  gets  there  !  Come, 
let's  turn  in." 

In  spite  of  his  fatalistic  prophecies,  however, 
Norman  Lewis  spent  an  hour  or  two  the  next 
afternoon  in  patient  interrogation  of  Cyrus 
Calhoun.  The  legends  surrounding  the  arrival 
of  Tom's  mother  in  Bartonvale  twenty-three 
years  before  had  grown  marvellously  within  the 
last  few  weeks,  since  Tom  Beaulieu  had  declared 
himself  a  white  man.  Old  Calhoun,  while  making 
every  effort  to  narrate  the  story  as  he  remembered 
it,  and  to  harmonize  his  recollections  with  Mammy 
Hudson's  confession,  was  evidently  hopelessly  con 
fused  under  Lewis's  cross-questioning.  Fact  and 
fiction  followed  with  equal  readiness  from  his 
credulous  lips,  and  the  only  thing  Lewis  managed 
to  assure  himself  of,  was  the  undoubted  fact  that 
the  Southern  woman  who  had  brought  her  baby 
to  Bartonvale  in  1865  was  not  at  the  time  con 
sidered  by  the  people  on  Nigger  Hill  to  be  one 
of  themselves.  Everything  else  was  uncertain. 
There  was,  indeed,  one  item  of  intelligence  that 
the  perturbed  old  mechanic  quite  forgot  to  men 
tion,  which  to  the  trained  discernment  of  the 
lawyer  might  have  revealed  itself  as  very  im- 


THE  PLATED    CITY  119 

portant  information.  But  Lewis  went  back  to 
his  office  without  it,  and  composed  a  document, 
smiling  somewhat  ironically  the  while,  to  the 
effect  that,  to  the  best  belief  of  the  parties 
therein  mentioned,  Thomas  Beaulieu,  ball-player 
by  occupation,  was  not  known  to  be  of  African 
blood.  This  statement  seemed  entirely  satis 
factory  to  the  San  Francisco  manager,  who  was 
given  a  sworn  copy  of  it.  The  original,  duly 
signed  and  sealed,  was  in  Tom  Beaulieu's  inside 
pocket,  together  with  his  winter  contract,  when, 
at  the  close  of  the  base-ball  season  in  Connecti 
cut,  the  simple-minded  fellow  waved  farewell  to 
a  huge  crowd  of  his  admirers  at  the  Bartonvale 
depot,  and  started  for  California,  in  the  hope  of 
meeting  the  color  line  no  more. 


120  THE  PLATED   CITY 


VII 

TOM'S  departure  for  California  left  Esther 
Beaulieu's  position  in  the  Plated  City  more 
anomalous  than  ever.  When  she  saw  how  his 
hopes  were  staked  upon  the  venture,  she  advised 
and  even  urged  him  to  go,  though  she  could  not 
master  a  growing  fearfulness  that  the  outcome 
would  be  disastrous.  For  herself,  she  dreaded 
to  be  left  alone  in  Bartonvale,  but  she  made 
light  of  this  to  Tom.  Two  months  of  compan 
ionship  had  deepened  wondrously  her  affection 
for  him,  and  while  she  recognized  clearly  enough 
his  slender  mental  capacity  —  the  fellow  could 
scarcely  read,  and  could  keep  his  mind  on  no 
subject,  except  lately  upon  the  color  line,  for 
more  than  five  minutes  at  a  time  —  his  gentle 
ness  of  heart  and  chivalrous  devotion  to  her 
made  her  oblivious  of  every  deficiency.  The 
days  when  he  was  away  from  Bartonvale  scarcely 
counted  in  her  life  ;  she  simply  went  to  the  Plate 
Works  and  came  back  again.  Now  that  an 
absence  of  many  months  faced  her,  it  took  all  her 
bravery  to  let  him  go,  but  for  his  sake  she  could 
not  interpose  a  word  of  remonstrance.  She  could 
not  help  discerning  that  one  reason  for  his  restless- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  121 

ness  in  Bartonvale  was  his  conviction  that  he  was 
compromising  her  by  remaining.  A  strange  deli 
cacy  kept  him  from  avowing  it,  and  yet  she  was 
certain  that  his  heart  was  set  upon  the  journey 
very  largely  because  of  his  vague  perception  that 
his  sister  would  have  an  easier  time  if  he  were 
away,  —  especially  if  some  day  he  were  to  come 
back,  with  a  pocket  full  of  money,  and  a  big 
reputation  in  the  Great  League,  and  an  established 
record  as  a  white  man  !  Week  by  week,  she  had 
seen  that  the  color  question  was  preying  unceas 
ingly  on  his  mind.  His  "  emancipation  "  had  made 
him  self-conscious.  He  grew  suspicious  and 
morose.  Once  he  had  never  known  when  people 
were  laughing  at  his  pretensions  to  equality  with 
them  ;  now  he  discovered  sneers  when  there  were 
none.  Obviously,  what  Tom  needed  was  a  fresh 
start  in  a  new  place,  and  Pierre  Beaulieu's 
daughter  could  not  help'  dreaming,  in  spite  of 
her  fears,  that  all  would  go  wonderfully  well. 

So  she  kissed  him  good  by  with  a  heart  that  let 
itself  be  light,  and  turned  back  to  her  solitary  life. 
Surely  no  girl  with  what  Norman  Lewis  had  called 
a  taste  for  fiction  and  a  pretty  face  was  ever  less 
conscious  of  the  attention  she  might  attract.  And 
the  Plated  City  was  too  busy  with  other  things 
to  trouble  itself  long  about  Esther  Beaulieu, — 
except  when  she  needed  a  lesson.  In  the  cool 
autumn  mornings  she  hurried  unobserved  along  the 
foggy  streets  to  the  Plate  Shops  to  be  at  the  bench 


122  THE  PLATED   CITY 

when  the  second  whistle  blew.  At  noon  she  no 
longer  dared  as  once  to  linger  alone  over  her 
work,  but  hastened  back  to  her  boarding-house, 
where  the  table  was  gradually  filling  up  with 
Welsh  and  German  operatives  who  treated  Miss 
Beaulieu  quite  as  they  would  have  treated  any  one 
else.  Her  evenings  she  spent  mostly  in  reading, 
now  and  then  laying  aside  her  books  for  the  pur 
pose  of  making  over  the  cheap  gowns  and  retrim- 
ming  the  straw  bonnets  that  won  the  admiration 
of  Sally  Thayer.  The  daughter  of  the  ne'er-do- 
weel  French  sculptor  had  inherited  the  artistic 
eye  and  hand,  and  not  even  Daudet's  Desiree 
Delobelle  herself,  over  whose  story  Esther  had 
lingered  with  wet  eyes,  could  lend  to  a  bit  of 
ribbon  or  fragile  flower-spray  or  bright  bird's 
wing  a  more  inevitable  felicity. 

The  hours  that  dragged  most  wearily  for  her 
were  those  of  Sunday'.  The  freedom  from  en 
forced  labor  made  her  restless.  All  of  her  girlish 
vitality  and  curiosity  asserted  itself;  she  longed 
to  do  one  of  the  things  which  her  instinct  for 
propriety  told  her  was  forbidden  :  to  take  a  boat, 
for  instance,  and  drop  down  the  black  Mattawan- 
set  toward  the  Sound,  or  to  wander  up  the  valley 
into  the  great  woods  that  still  hung  upon  the 
outskirts  of  Bartonvale.  She  wrote  invariably 
to  Tom,  but  that  consumed  but  a  single  hour. 
Another  hour  or  more  she  spent  in  church,  still 
frequenting  St.  Asaph's,  whose  rector  greeted  her 


THE  PLATED    CITY  123 

usually  with  undisguised  concern.  She  was  igno 
rant  of  his  endeavor  to  direct  her  course  of  read 
ing,  and  she  mistook  his  professional  solicitude 
for  the  moral  effects  of  unrestricted  French  fiction 
upon  a  young  woman  of  the  working  classes,  for 
a  quite  friendly  and  unprofessional  interest  in  her 
self.  He  was  one  of  the  very  few  persons  in  the 
Plated  City  who  took  pains  to  address  her  kindly ; 
and  the  girl  was  so  grateful  that  she  seriously  con 
sidered  whether  she  ought  not  in  return  to  sub 
scribe  for  The  Flying  Buttress,  at  three  dollars  a 
year.  But  an  occasional  mild  pressure  of  the  hand 
from  the  Rev.  Whitesyde  Trellys  did  not  redeem 
the  entire  Sunday  from  loneliness  and  restraint. 
Once  or  twice  she  attended  the  meetings  of  the 
Working  Girls'  Club  which  Trellys  had  organized 
in  the  Flats,  but  the  reading  matter  on  the  table 
failed  to  rouse  her  interest,  and  she  did  not  find 
any  one  to  talk  to  about  the  things  she  would  have 
liked  to  discuss.  She  was  only  twenty-three ; 
she  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to  her  as  dear  old 
Tante  Beaulieu  did,  about  books  and  places  and 
people,  and  to  set  her  imagination  all  aflame ! 
People  seemed  so  stupid  here  in  Bartonvale ;  so 
busy  and  hurried  and  worried ;  quick  in  giving 
you  change  for  a  dollar,  and  fond  of  making 
jokes  that  were  not  jokes,  and  perpetually  engag 
ing  themselves  in  tearing  up  streets  for  sewer 
pipes  and  perching  smart  little  wooden  houses 
on  side-hills  and  reading  newspapers  in  the  elec- 


124  THE  PLATED    CITY 

trie  cars  —  there  were  so  many  queer  things  in  the 
States  !  — but  then  there  was  nobody  in  the  whole 
town  who  cared  about  Alexandre  Dumas  !  She 
herself  drew  more  books  from  the  Library  than 
any  one  else,  the  librarian  had  told  her,  and  she 
never  read  more  than  two  or  three  a  week  now 
that  she  was  at  work.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it,  the  Plated  City  was  a  stupid  place  ! 

Monday  brought  her  happier  hours,  in  forcing 
her  back  to  her  tiny  room  at  the  Plate  Works. 
The  autumn  sunshine  filled  it  all  day  long.  The 
Mattawanset  murmured  beneath  her  window,  and 
if  the  water  was  stained  with  factory  dyes  and 
the  bottom  choked  with  tin  cans  and  antique  hoop- 
skirts  and  various  abominations,  Esther  Beaulieu's 
eyes  never  detected  any  of  these  things.  It  was 
a  magical  river  to  her  ;  it  was  not  of  Bartonvale, 
though,  like  herself,  it  was  compelled  for  a  space 
to  linger  there.  Often,  when  the  bare-armed  boy 
brought  her  a  fresh  tray  of  silver-plated  covers, 
to  be  lightly  struck  into  place  upon  the  backs 
of  hair-brushes  or  the  handles  of  whisk-brooms,  he 
found  her  gazing  at  the  river,  but  she  never  failed 
to  work  up  for  the  lost  minutes.  Mr.  Jenkins, 
the  foreman  of  this  part  of  the  works,  thought 
her  a  great  improvement  over  the  Fennessey  girl, 
who  had  disliked  the  brush-backing  room  because 
there  was  nobody  to  talk  to.  He  praised  her  to 
Dr.  Atwood,  who  looked  in  upon  her  sometimes 
in  his  hurried  daily  round  of  the  Works,  and  gave 


THE  PLATED   CITY  125 

her  a  bluff  word  or  so,  thinking  it  might  please 
Sally  Thayer.  Once  he  mystified  her  by  stopping 
to  ask  : — 

"So  you  read  French  books,  do  you?  That's 
right,  that's  right.  Pick  'em  out  yourself  !  When 
you've  read  'em  all,  I  guess  we  can  find  some  more 
for  you.  Don't  you  let  any  one  try  to  run  you, 
either  !  "  And  winking  enigmatically,  he  passed 
on,  still  twinkling  with  delight  over  the  recollec 
tions  of  Trellys's  discomfiture. 

As  the  autumn  wore  away,  the  Doctor  was  not 
always  in  so  cheery  a  mood.  Some  of  his  New 
York  investments  were  proving  troublesome,  and 
he  had  still  more  prosaic  discomforts  under  his 
own  roof.  During  his  entire  business  life,  it  had 
been  his  custom  to  be  at  his  desk  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  to  give  a  good  example  to  the  other  men 
in  the  office.  His  cooks  had  usually  grumbled  at 
the  necessity  for  a  half -past-six  breakfast,  and  his 
latest  one,  abetted  by  the  housemaid,  had  openly 
rebelled.  The  Doctor  promptly  and  vivaciously 
discharged  them  both,  but  finding  it  difficult  to 
fill  their  places  immediately,  was  forced  to  take 
his  meals  at  the  Bartonvale  Hotel,  an  ancient 
hostelry  upon  the  Green.  The  young  fellows 
who  were  obliged  to  board  at  this  establishment 
the  year  round,  for  want  of  a  better,  —  the  Plated 
City  having  as  yet  no  hotel  that  corresponded 
with  its  pretensions  in  other  respects,  —  welcomed 
the  Doctor  enthusiastically,  and  he  was  given  an 


126  THE  PLATED   CITY 

end  seat  at  the  table,  between  Kennedy  and  Lewis. 
For  a  while  Dr.  Atwood  pretended  that  he  liked 
the  change :  "it  made  him  so  much  more  inde 
pendent  ;  he  felt  ten  years  younger  for  living  a 
little  with  the  boys  !  "  Two  or  three  times,  after 
supper,  he  walked  around  to  the  Bank  block  with 
Craig  and  his  roommate,  and  climbed  the  stairs 
to  their  room,  where  he  refused  a  cigar,  but  peered 
with  some  interest  at  Lewis's  pictures,  and  the 
collection  of  bats,  tennis  racquets,  foils,  and  gloves 
that  Kennedy  had  brought  from  Yale.  He  was 
exceedingly  affable  on  these  occasions,  and  told 
stories  of  his  life  as  an  army  surgeon,  and  of  the 
beginnings  of  the  silver  plate  industry  in  Barton- 
vale,  and  once,  to  Lewis's  outward  amusement  and 
secret  sinking  of  heart,  he  related  a  scheme  for 
electro-plating  by  an  entirely  new  process  which 
George  W.  Lewis  had  persuaded  him  to  put  five 
thousand  dollars  into,  twenty  years  before,  and 
which  would  have  made  both  their  fortunes  ten 
times  over,  —  if  it  had  only  worked  ! 

After  a  little,  however,  the  Doctor  discovered 
in  himself  the  symptoms  of  indigestion,  and  won 
dered  if  the  monotonous  hotel  cookery  were  not 
responsible  for  it.  The  young  fellows  tried  hyp 
ocritically  to  persuade  him  that  the  Bartonvale 
Hotel  set  a  most  excellent  table  indeed,  but  in 
spite  of  their  assertions  Dr.  Atwood  began  again 
to  make  discouraged  inquiries  around  town  for  a 
cook  and  housemaid. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  127 

He  seemed  to  worry  a  good  deal  more  about 
that  cook,  Lewis  remarked  to  him  one  day,  than 
he  did  over  the  rumor  of  a  coming  strike  at  the 
Plate  Works. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  the  Doctor.  "  They  won't  strike. 
They  never  have  ;  and  if  they  know  when  they're 
well  off,  they  won't  now." 

"  Your  cook  ought  to  have  known  when  she  was 
well  off,  too,"  retorted  Lewis,  sagely,  "  but  appar 
ently  she  didn't,  and  struck  accordingly.  Strik- 
ing's  in  the  air  this  year,  Doctor."  Norman  Lewis 
was  running  for  the  Legislature  that  fall,  and  was 
in  daily  touch  with  the  currents  of  opinion  in  the 
Plated  City. 

"  Well,  I  can  stand  it  if  they  can,"  said  the 
Doctor,  stoutly ;  "  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it, 
Lewis." 

That  very  afternoon,  nevertheless,  Dr.  Atwood 
discovered  placards,  calling  for  a  meeting  of  the 
Plate  Girls'  Union,  tacked  here  and  there  about 
the  Works,  and  impatiently  ordered  a  foreman  to 
tear  them  down.  The  next  morning,  placards 
twice  as  big  were  posted  on  the  walls  and  fences 
around  the  gateway.  The  Doctor  contented  him 
self  with  a  tolerant  smile  ;  his  point  had  been  sim 
ply  that  the  only  notices  which  could  be  posted  in 
the  shops  were  notices  from  the  office.  Mr.  Mar 
vin  and  the  other  men  in  the  office  owned  that 
they  did  not  like  the  situation,  but  they  did  not 
know  any  cause  for  a  strike.  For  that  matter, 


128  THE  PLATED   CITY 

neither  did  the  Atwood  branch  of  the  Plate  Girls' 
Union,  at  least  until  they  had  been  addressed  by 
delegates  from  the  other  plate  shops  in  Bartonvale. 
Then  they  learned  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  or 
ganized  labor  to  assert  itself  against  the  tyranny 
of  capital,  and  that  it  was  only  by  seizing  the  first 
occasion  to  show  their  power  that  they  could  hope 
for  ultimate  success.  The  Atwood  employees 
found  these  phrases  satisfactory,  and  two  or  three 
delegates,  who  delivered  them  with  varying  ter 
minology,  were  applauded  with  some  vigor.  Then 
a  male  delegate  from  another  department  of  the 
Atwood  Works  followed,  with  a  bitter  denuncia 
tion  of  the  Doctor's  autocratic  methods,  his  high 
handed  demeanor  in  tearing  down  the  placards  of 
the  Union,  and  his  general  indifference  to  the 
cause  of  labor.  At  this  point  a  tall  girl,  whose 
fine-cut  face  was  pale  with  indignation,  rose  and 
made  her  way  to  the  door  of  the  hall.  The  meet 
ing  was  held  behind  closed  doors,  and  there  was  a 
moment's  difficulty  about  letting  her  out.  "  Dr. 
Atwood  has  been  a  friend  to  me,"  she  declared  in 
a  low  but  perfectly  audible  voice.  "  I  do  not 
remain  to  hear  him  abused  !  "  whereupon  she  was 
allowed  to  depart,  not  without  an  accompaniment 
of  hisses. 

It  was  Esther  Beaulieu's  first  acquaintance  with 
the  Union.  She  had  been  waited  upon  by  the 
committee,  a  few  days  previously,  and  invited  to 
join,  and  upon  the  representation  that  all  the  em- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  129 

ployees  were  members  and  would  help  support  one 
another  in  time  of  sickness,  or  lack  of  work,  she 
had  parted  with  her  two  dollars  for  initiation  fee, 
and  agreed  to  contribute  the  twenty-five  cents  a 
week,  though  she  could  ill  spare  it.  But  until  that 
evening's  meeting  she  had  no  idea  of  the  inten 
tion  of  the  organization.  As  she  listened  to  the 
speeches,  it  gradually  grew  clear  to  her.  She  had 
read  of  such  things  in  books.  The  cause  of  labor 
was  no  doubt  an  excellent  cause ;  but  how  could 
she  join  in  a  strike  with  only  a  few  dollars  laid  by, 
and  Tom  far  away  in  California  ?  It  was  impossi 
ble.  She  must  have  work  !  And  when  she  heard 
the  attack  upon  Dr.  Atwood,  her  spirit  of  loyalty 
was  kindled,  and  she  would  not  have  flinched 
before  all  the  hisses  in  the  Plated  City. 

The  following  noon,  the  treasurer  of  the  Plate 
Girls'  Union,  now  suspicious  of  her  fealty,  stopped 
her  on  her  way  homewards,  and  demanded  the  first 
week's  contribution.  Miss  Beaulieu  replied  that 
she  did  not  care  to  join  the  Union,  after  all,  and 
passed  on.  The  incident  was  slight  enough,  but 
the  officials  of  the  Union  were  eager  to  take  any 
opportunity  for  strengthening  their  influence,  and 
the  Beaulieu  girl's  open  refusal  to  remain  in  the 
ranks  was  bruited  all  over  the  Plate  Works  by 
night.  It  was  the  first  break  in  what  had  prom 
ised  to  be  a  complete  organization,  and  accordingly 
deserved  decisive  action.  It  was  clear  that  if  a  Non- 
Union  person  could  continue  to  be  employed  at  the 


130  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Atwood  Works,  the  cause  of  labor  might  suffer 
serious  consequences.  Unfortunately  for  the  ap 
plication  of  those  mildly  coercive  measures  which 
are  sometimes  effective,  the  Beaulieu  girl  earned 
her  pay  in  a  room  all  by  herself,  where  she  could 
not  be  made  to  feel  the  pressure  of  public  opinion. 
Any  open  persecution  upon  the  streets  would  prob 
ably  be  unsafe  ;  and  the  dignity  with  which  she 
had  marched  out  of  the  room  on  the  night  of  the 
meeting  led  the  officials  of  the  Union  to  suspect 
that  she  would  not  be  amenable  to  threats.  But 
the  solidarity  of  labor  required  that  her  place  at 
the  Atwood  Works  should  be  taken  by  another, 
and  much  ingenuity,  and  a  rapidly  growing  excite 
ment,  were  devoted  to  the  question.  The  girl  her 
self  was  quite  oblivious  of  the  tempest  she  had 
raised :  she  hammered  lightly  away  at  her  brush- 
backs  as  before.  Nor  would  Dr.  Atwood  admit 
to  his  associates  that  there  was  any  unusual  state 

•L 

of  feeling  in  the  shops.  The  rurm>r  grew  more 
definite  around  town,  however,  that  a  strike  was 
to  be  declared  at  the  Atwood  Works  over  the 
question  of  the  employment  of  Non-Union  hands. 
At  last  Esther  Beaulieu  was  aware  that  people 
turned  to  look  at  her  in  the  streets.  One  noon 
a  dozen  girls  gathered  around  the  door  of  the 
Works,  and  called  her  names  as  she  came  out. 
She  comprehended  at  last  how  fully  she  had 
aroused  the  wrath  of  her  fellow-workmen.  That 
very  day  a  new  idea  occurred  to  the  Central  Labor 


THE  PLATED   CITY  131 

Committee :  why  would  not  the  most  diplomatic 
way  of  disposing  of  the  case  be  simply  to  draw 
the  color  line  on  the  Beaulieu  girl?  She  was,  as 
everybody  knew,  Tom  Beaulieu's  sister,  and  Tom 
Beaulieu,  as  everybody  ought  to  know,  whatever 
Tom  himself  might  say  about  it,  was  a  colored 
man.  No  colored  girl  had  ever  been  employed  in 
the  Atwood  Works.  Why  not  send  a  delegation 
to  the  Doctor,  and  request  that,  in  view  of  the 
feelings  of  the  operatives,  the  Beaulieu  girl 
might  be  discharged  ?  It  was  an  insult  to  white 
labor  to  have  such  a  girl  in  the  Works  :  not  a 
Labor  Union  in  town  was  willing  to  admit  a  col 
ored  person  to  its  ranks,  as  the  Doctor  might  have 
known,  and  that  ought  to  be  proof  enough  of  the 
way  employees  felt  about  the  matter.  But  it 
might  not  be  politic  to  say  anything  about  the 
Labor  Union  to  the  "old  man."  Was  it  not  best 
to  say  simply  that  the  Atwood  employees  disliked 
to  work  in  the  same  shops  with  a  colored  woman, 
and  trusted  the  Doctor  would  see  his  way  clear  to 
get  rid  of  her  ? 

So  argued  the  more  conservative  members  of  the 
Union,  and  they  had  almost  carried  their  point 
when  some  one  made  an  announcement  that  in 
stantly  changed  the  aspect  of  affairs.  The  Fen- 
nessey  girl  had  drifted  back  to  town,  and  it  was 
discovered  that  she  was  not  only  a  member  of  the 
Plate  Girls'  Union,  but  that,  instead  of  giving  up 
the  job,  she  had  been  discharged  by  Dr.  Atwood 


132  TIIE  PLATED   CITY 

for  alleged  impertinence,  and  that  on  the  same  day 
her  place  had  been  filled  by  the  Beaulieu  girl  ! 
The  Beaulieu  girl  was  a  scab,  then,  which  was  ten 
times  worse  than  being  a  nigger  !  That  night  the 
crowd  that  awaited  her  at  the  doorway  had  trebled 
its  numbers,  and  the  hated  epithet  was  launched 
at  her  from  girls'  lips,  trembling  with  passion. 
The  Labor  Committee  dropped  the  color  line  argu 
ment,  and  chose  a  spokesman  to  represent  to  Dr. 
Atwood  that  a  Union  hand  had  been  dismissed, 
and  a  Non-Union  one  put  in  her  place,  and  that  on 
this  issue  the  employees  of  the  Plate  Works  were 
ready  to  go  out  and  stay  out  all  winter. 

The  report  spread  to  the  office  that  the  dele 
gation  would  interview  the  "old  man"  at  noon. 
Mr.  Marvin  took  it  upon  himself  once  more  to 
convince  the  Doctor  that  this  time  the  workmen 
meant  business. 

"  It  would  be  a  bad  time  for  a  strike,  Doctor," 
he  suggested  warily.  "We've  got  two  months' 
work  on  contracts  ahead  of  us,  and  we  can't 
afford  to  shut  down.  If  'twas  only  after  New 
Year's,  I  should  be  just  as  independent  as  you ; 
but  it  seems  a  pity  to  have  a  strike  on  our  hands 
just  now,  over  one  girl." 

"  Send  her  down  here  when  the  whistle  blows," 
said  the  Doctor,  after  listening  to  Marvin's  ver 
sion  of  the  grievances  of  the  Union  against  Miss 
Beaulieu.  "  Send  her  down  here,  and  I'll  hear  her 
side  of  the  story.  Strike  or  no  strike,  though, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  133 

Marvin,  I  guess  these  Works  will  be  run  from  the 
office  and  not  from  the  shops.     Eh  ?  " 

But  Marvin  shook  his  head  dubiously.  At  the 
stroke  of  twelve,  he  trotted  upstairs  to  the  brush- 
backing  room.  Before  he  could  return,  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  inner  office  door,  and  the  Doctor 
looked  up  from  his  littered  desk  in  time  to  see 
the  entrance  of  the  delegates  that  Marvin  had 
foretold.  Foremost  came  a  professional  labor 
leader,  selected  by  the  Central  Committee  for  his 
glibness  of  speech ;  then  the  Fennessey  girl's 
father,  —  who  had  left  his  tubs  in  the  electro 
plating  room,  —  the  polisher  who  had  owned  the 
blue  heron,  and  had  cherished  a  grudge  against 
the  office  ever  since  its  untimely  end,  and  three 
representatives  from  the  Plate  Girls'  Union  proper ; 
a  stout  married  woman,  and  two  slim  creatures 
with  crimped  hair  and  deprecatory  eyes.  They 
ranged  themselves  awkwardly  before  the  "old 
man's"  desk,  and  in  response  to  his  "Well,  what 
can  I  do  for  you?"  looked  in  helpless  admiration 
at  their  spokesman,  who  stepped  forward,  and 
began  his  remarks  in  a  tone  half -insinuating,  half 
of  assumed  equality. 

"  We  represent,  Dr.  Atwood,  the  various  labor 
organizations  having  members  among  the  em 
ployees  of  the  Atwood  Works,  and  more  espe 
cially" —  he  waved  his  left  hand  gallantly  — 
"the  members  of  the  Plate  Girls'  Union.  This 
organization,  as  you  may,  or  may  not  know  —  " 


134  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  want 
to  know  whom  I'm  talking  with.  Let  me  see, 
what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"Donovan.  John  R.  Donovan."  The  inflec 
tion  was  that  of  conscious  pride. 

"  Never  saw  you  before,  that  I  remember,"  re 
sponded  Dr.  Atwood.  "  Is  there  any  such  name 
on  the  pay-roll,  Mr.  Marvin  ? "  The  paymaster 
had  just  re-entered  the  outer  office,  and  was  in 
plain  view  through  the  door. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Marvin. 

"Then  you're  not  employed  here?"  demanded 
the  Doctor,  turning  to  the  labor  leader. 

"  No ;  but  I  represent  the  Central  Labor  Com 
mittee  of  the  district,  which  has  assumed  charge 
of  this  difficulty  and  delegated  me  —  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  represent,"  cut  in  the 
Doctor,  savagely.  "  When  I  want  any  assistance 
from  an  outsider  in  running  the  Atwood  Plate 
Works,  I'll  bear  your  name  in  mind,  Mr.  Donovan. 
Meantime  you'll  find  that  side  door  the  quickest 
one  to  get  out  by." 

Donovan's  face  grew  black.  He  did  not  stir. 
The  "  old  man "  leaned  forward,  with  a  gesture 
too  significant  to  be  trifled  with.  He  eyed  him 
an  instant,  and  sullenly  obeyed  orders.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  it  could  be  seen  that  the  entire 
passage-way  from  the  Works  to  the  street  was 
filled  with  operatives,  awaiting  eagerly  the  re 
sults  of  the  conference.  The  door  had  no  sooner 


THE  PLATED   CITY  135 

closed  than  an  angry  murmur  ran  through  the 
crowd. 

Dr.  Atwood  turned  coolly  to  the  leaderless  dele 
gation. 

"  Now,  Fennessey,"  he  said,  "  or  you,  Robinson, 
tell  me  what  the  trouble  is,  and  we'll  see  whether 
anything  can  be  done  about  it." 

Fennessey  rolled  down  his  sleeves  uneasily.  He 
was  not  a  talking  man,  himself,  and  had  counted 
simply  upon  backing  up  Donovan.  He  was  at  a 
loss  where  to  begin,  but  parental  jealousy,  joined 
with  race  antagonism,  got  the  better  of  his  pure 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  Union  labor. 

"  She's  a  dommed  naygur  ! "  he  burst  out. 
"  Ye  tuk  away  me  gyurl's  job  from  her  for  nothin' 
but  maybe  a  free-spoken  wurrd  or  so,  and  ye  gev 
it  to  a  dommed  Canadian  naygur."  He  stopped 
sulkily  and  tugged  away  at  his  sleeves. 

"  There's  some  misunderstanding  about  that, 
Fennessey,"  said  the  Doctor,  pleasantly  enough. 
The  man  had  been  with  him  twenty-five  years, 
and  was  a  capital  workman.  "  Maggie  told  me 
she  was  going  away  the  next  week,  for  she  didn't 
like  the  work.  It  was  pay  day,  and  I  said  she 
might  as  well  go  at  once,  if  she  was  dissatisfied, 
and  off  she  went.  That  was  all.  And  a  couple 
of  hours  later  I  put  another  hand  in  her  place." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  married  woman,  "  and  who 
was  the  hand  you  put  in  her  plac6  ?  You  know 
who  she  was.  I  had  to  work  a  month  at  the  same 


136 


bench  with  her  before  I  found  out  that  I  was 
working  with  a  colored  woman  !  There  isn't  a 
plate  shop  in  town,  Dr.  Atwood,  where  respectable 
help  are  asked  to  do  that."  The  creatures  with 
crimped  hair  nodded  eloquently  at  the  Doctor. 

"  That's  it !  "  exclaimed  Fennessey.  "  Where's 
the  chance  for  white  labor  wid  that  Bowlyer  gyurl 
shtealin'  Mag  Fennessey's  bread  ?  There  ain't  a 
Union  in  town  that  would  let  in  a  naygur,  savin' 
only  the  Relief  Corps  up  at  the  Machine  Shops, 
and  they  has  three  —  and  that  ain't  a  Union  at  all. 
It's  five  and  twinty  years  that  I've  shtood  over  yer 
tubs,  James  Atwood,  and  I  niver  t'ought  to  see 
this  day."  There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  sound  of  angry  voices  from  the  crowd  outside. 
.  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  inquired  James  Atwood.  "  Am 
I  to  understand  that  there  is  trouble  in  the  shops 
simply  because  I  hired  this  Beaulieu  girl  to  work 
there  ?  "  His  voice  was  conciliatory,  but  his  gray 
eyes  were  beginning  to  gleam  ominously. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  polisher,  who  was  a  stickler 
for  Union  rights,  and  had  thought  it  all  along  a 
mistake  to  drag  the  color  question  into  the  quarrel. 
"  It  isn't  that  the  Beaulieu  girl  is  colored,  as  I  look 
at  it.  Some  say  she  isn't  colored,  anyway.  The 
point  of  it  is  right  here." 

"  The  point  is  what  I'm  waiting  for,"  said  the 
Doctor,  testily.  Robinson  cleared  his  throat ;  he 
had  been  secretly  jealous  of  Donovan's  leadership 
in  the  delegation,  all  the  while.  Outside,  there 


THE  PLATED   CITY  137 

was  a  great  clapping  of  hands  :  Donovan  had 
mounted  the  fence  to  make  a  speech. 

"  The  situation  is  this,"  began  Robinson.  "  The 
employees  in  these  plate  works,  like  the  rest  of  the 
working  people  of  Bartonvale,  feel  that  in  union 
there  is  strength.  The  laboring  man  can  hope  for 
fair  terms  —  that's  the  way  we  look  at  it,  Doctor 
—  only  when  he  stands  united  against  the  power 
of  capital.  We've  got  to  hold  together,  or  we're 
not  in  it.  Now  the  object  of  the  Plated  City 
Protective  Association,  which  includes  almost  all 
the  laboring  men  and  women  of  the  town,  is  to 
see  that  we  do  hold  together.  We  can't  have  one 
person  saying,  I'll  work  for  so  much,  and  another 
one  saying  I'll  take  that  job  for  less.  The  Union 
ought  to  regulate  the  price  of  labor.  It's  the  only 
friend  the  laboring  man  has.  If  there  is  any  man 
or  any  girl  who  ain't  willing  to  stand  by  the 
Union,  they  can  get  out  of  here !  We  mean 
business.  We're  going  to  protect  ourselves  ;  and 
when  a  Union  hand  is  discharged  and  a  Non-Union 
hand  put  in  her  place,  you'll  find  that  we've  got 
something  to  say  about  it  !  " 

"  Go  on.  And  what  have  you  got  to  say  about 
it?" 

"  That  depends  on  you.  If  you  agree  to  give 
the  Beaulieu  girl  her  time,  and  put  a  Union  hand 
in  her  place  —  we  don't  ask  you  to  put  Miss  Fen- 
nessey  back  again,  do  we  Mike  ?  —  there  won't  be 
any  trouble." 


138 


"  And  suppose  I  don't?  " 

Robinson  hesitated.  He  was  a  hot-headed 
fellow,  but  he  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  not 
empowered  to  declare  the  policy  of  the  Union. 
He  almost  wished  for  Donovan,  whose  resonant 
sentences  could  at  this  moment  be  plainly  heard 
within  the  office. 

"  I  want  to  know  just  where  you  stand,"  con 
tinued  the  owner  of  the  Works.  "  According  to 
Mike  Fennessey,  your  grievance  is  that  the  girl 
is  colored.  The  other  girls  don't  want  to  work 
in  the  same  shop  with  her  ;  is  that  it  ?  " 

"That's  it,"  affirmed  the  thick-headed  Fen 
nessey.  "There  ain't  a  Union  in  the  town  that'll 
have  a  dommed  wan  av  thim." 

"  So  the  Plate  Girls  don't  want  her  in  their 
Union  anyway  ?  " 

The  three  representatives  of  that  organization, 
jealous  of  the  slight  which  Miss  Beaulieu  had  put 
upon  it,  walked  straight  into  the  Doctor's  trap. 

"  No,"  they  said,  "  we  wouldn't  have  her  now 
anyway." 

Dr.  Atwood's  eyes  flashed.  "  And  yet  accord 
ing  to  Robinson,  you  ask  me  to  discharge  the  girl 
because  she  isn't  in  the  Union,  when  you  don't 
want  her  and  won't  have  her  !  "  The  delegates 
looked  angrily  at  one  another.  A  round  of 
applause  for  Mr.  Donovan  reverberated  outside  ; 
but  the  place  where  that  ready-tongued  leader 
was  most  needed  was  evidently  within  the  office. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  139 

"The  next  time  you  send  a  delegation  in  here," 
remarked  Dr.  Atwood,  composedly,  "  you'd  better 
agree  on  your  story  beforehand.  And  now  let  me 
say  this.  Since  these  shops  were  opened,  twenty- 
five  years  ago  the  thirteenth  day  of  last  March,  — 
you,  Fennessey,  were  one  of  the  men  that  began 
when  I  did,  —  I  have  never  had  any  trouble  with 
the  hands.  I've  paid  good  wages,  and  as  long  as 
a  man  did  his  work  well,  I've  never  asked  whether 
he  was  Union  or  Non-Union,  Democrat  or  Re 
publican,  Catholic  or  Hottentot.  In  all  that  time 
nobody,  except  the  foreman,  came  in  here  to  tell 
me  whom  to  hire  and  not  to  hire.  It's  too  late 
now  for  me  to  learn  that  way  of  doing  business. 
In  the  room  where  she  is  now,  the  Beaulieu  girl 
is  giving  good  satisfaction,  and  whether  she's 
colored  or  not  colored,  or  belongs  to  the  Union 
or  doesn't  belong  to  the  Union,  she  can  have  the 
place  as  long  as  she  wants  to  keep  it.  And  what's 
more,  I'll  see  that  she's  let  alone."  The  Doctor's 
voice  had  risen,  from  sentence  to  sentence,  and  as  he 
reached  the  last  clause,  it  descended  with  a  crash. 

The  youngest  delegate  began  to  cry.  In  the 
blocked  passageway,  the  operatives  were  giving 
three  cheers  for  Donovan,  who  had  finished  his 
harangue.  Robinson  took  a  step  nearer  to  the 
President's  desk  ;  he  did  not  propose  to  let  Dono 
van  carry  off  the  honors  with  the  crowd. 

"  That's  your  final  answer,  is  it,  Dr.  Atwood  ?  " 
he  said  doggedly. 


140  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"My  answers  are  usually  final,"  thundered 
James  Atwood. 

"  Then  I  want  to  say,  as  representing  the  labor 
organizations,  one  word  more." 

"Be  quick  about  it."  The  Doctor's  temper 
was  fast  becoming  uncontrollable. 

"  All  right.  It's  this.  You're  an  old  man,  Dr. 
Atwood,  and  I'm  a  young  one,  but  I  can  tell  you 
that  the  day  for  your  high-handed  methods  of 
doing  business  has  gone  by.  You'll  find  that  the 
laboring  men  have  some  rights  in  the  matter  too. 
Keep  the  girl  if  you  want  to  ;  but  if  you  do,  you 
won't  have  by  to-morrow  a  man  to  fire  an  engine 
nor  one  woman  at  the  bench.  The  Protective 
Association  has  promised  to  back  us  up,  and  if  we 
go  out,  in  two  days  there  won't  be  a  plate  shop 
running  in  Bartonvale.  You  may  not  care  for  the 
other  concerns, — you're  too  cursedly  independent, 
— but  we  know  well  enough  you  don't  want  to 
stop  your  own  engines  just  now.  We're  going  to 
show  our  hand,  Dr.  Atwood.  We've  got  a  solid 
organization.  Unless  you  do  the  square  thing  in 
this  matter,  we  propose  to  tie  up  the  Atwood 
Works  tighter  than  a  drum !  What  will  you 
do?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do !  "  cried  James  At 
wood,  hoarsely,  leaping  to  his  feet  in  a  passion 
that  almost  robbed  him  of  words.  "  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You  can  all  go  straight 
to  the  devil !  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  141 

He  stamped  to  the  side  door  and  flung  it  open, 
in  the  face  of  the  waiting  crowd.  The  awed  dele 
gation  filed  past  him,  and  he  slammed  the  door 
behind  them.  Then  he  tottered  back  to  his  chair 
and  sank  into  it,  fumbling  with  his  collar  button. 
His  face  was  startlingly  flushed. 

"  Get  me  some  water,  Marvin,"  he  gasped  in  a 
thick  voice,  and  the  alarmed  paymaster  ran  for  it, 
and  then  hurriedly  opened  a  window.  The  ex- 
surgeon  dashed  the  water  upon  his  own  head  and 
wrists,  and  then  lay  back,  breathing  in  slowly  the 
chill  October  air. 

"  I'm  all  right  now,"  he  said,  opening  his  eyes 
after  a  minute.  "  I  suppose  a  man  of  my  consti 
tution  ought  to  avoid  any  excitement.  I  may 
have  lost  my  temper  a  little,  Marvin,  eh  ?  " 

"Possibly,"  replied  the  discreet  paymaster,  "a 
little." 

"  Well,  let's  see,  what's  to  be  done  now  ?  I  was 
just  starting  for  dinner,  wasn't  I?  Why,  hullo! 
I'd  forgotten  that  I  sent  for  you." 

Esther  Beaulieu  stood  before  him,  with  a  fright 
ened  face.  Marvin  had  shown  her  into  a  room 
adjoining  the  President's,  and  through  the  open 
door  she  had  heard  every  word. 

"We've  just  been  talking  about  you,  Miss  — 
Miss  Beaulieu." 

"I  heard  it  all." 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  don't  suppose  I  ought 
to  go  over  the  ground  again,  for  fear,  possibly,  of 


142  THE  PLATED   CITY 

getting  excited.  Naturally  I  am  a  man  of  strong 
feelings."  His  gaze  wandered  a  little.  Marvin 
noticed  that  his  eyes  were  still  colorless. 

"  You  understand  the  situation,"  he  continued. 
"  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  continue  to  give  satis 
faction.  Go  right  along  and  pay  no  attention  to 
anybody.  I'll  take  care  of  you.  If  the  rest  of 
'em  are  foolish  enough  to  strike,  let  'em  strike. 
You  can  have  work  as  long  as  the  brush-backs 
hold  out,  anyway." 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  burst  out.  "  I  want  to  work,  — 
I  must  work,  —  but  I  cannot  work  here  any  more. 
It  would  not  be  right,  after  you  have  been  so  kind 
to  me.  If  I  go  away,  there  won't  be  any  more 
trouble." 

The  Doctor  was  silent.  "  It  looks  as  if  there 
was  going  to  be  trouble  anyway,"  he  replied.  The 
cheery  pugnacity  was  quite  gone  from  his  voice. 
"  If  they're  waiting  for  a  chance  to  show  their 
hand,  the  quarrel  might  as  well  be  over  you  as 
over  anything  else.  Not  that  they  really  have 
anything  against  you,"  he  added  kindly.  "  They 
don't  mind  you  :  they're  only  trying  to  show  their 
power.  I  wouldn't  believe  it,  Marvin,  but  you're 
right." 

"  They  hate  me,"  said  the  girl.     "  Listen  !  " 

Through  the  open  window  there  came  cries  of 
"Scab!"  "Wait  for  the  scab!"  The  tumult 
grew  with  every  moment.  The  crowd  knew  that 
the  Beaulieu  girl  had  not  yet  come  out,  and  Rob- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  143 

inson  had  not  bettered  their  temper  by  his  ver 
batim  report  of  the  Doctor's  parting  message. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?  They  have  called  that 
after  me  every  noon  and  night  for  three  days.  If 
my  brother  were  only  here,  I  would  not  mind,  but 
I  am  afraid.  They  hate  me  so  !  I  must  not  work 
here  any  longer,  Dr.  Atwood.  If  they  will  let  me 
go  home  this  noon,  I  will  promise  not  to  come  back 
any  more.  Please  tell  them  so,  and  make  them  go 
away  !  And  then  there  needn't  be  any  strike." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  her  eyes  fastened  upon  his 
with  pathetic  intensity. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  that  is  the  best  way  out  of 
it,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,"  put  in  Marvin. 

"You  would  be  out  of  a  job  then,"  said  Dr.  At 
wood,  irresolutely,  "  and  I  might  be  no  better  off 
than  before.  But  you're  a  good-hearted  girl,  a 
very  good-hearted  girl.  Do  you  suppose  you 
could  get  any  other  kind  of  work  ?  " 

"  Scab  !  Scab  ! !  Scab  ! ! !  "  The  roar  of  voices  in 
the  passageway  made  effective  answer. 

"  Not  if  they  can  help  it,"  answered  the  girl, 
despairingly.  "  But  tell  them  to  go  away,  Dr. 
Atwood,  and  I  will  try.  I  shall  have  to  begin  all 
over  again  now."  Her  voice  broke  on  the  last 
word. 

"  Why,  wait,"  said  the  Doctor,  passing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  as  if  recollecting  himself. 
"  This  has  perhaps  confused  me  a  little.  I  drove 
around  town  for  two  hours  this  morning  looking 


144  THE  PLATED   CITY 

for  one.  That  is  to  say,  do  you  know  how  to 
cook?" 

Esther  Beaulieu  stared  at  him. 

"  Plain  cooking,  I  mean.  And  to  wash  up  the 
dishes,  and  dust  the  parlor  a  little,  I  suppose,  and 
go  to  the  door.  Could  you  do  that?" 

She  smiled  in  spite  of  her  anxiety.  "  I  used  to 
do  that  for  my  aunt  in  Quebec,"  she  replied. 

"  All  right,  we'll  try  it.  If  you  don't  like  the 
cooking,  I'll  get  somebody  else  to  do  that,  if  I  can 
find  anybody,  and  you  can  just  go  to  the  door. 
That's  what  I  have  to  keep  one  girl  for ;  and  no 
body  comes  to  the  door,  either." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  come,"  said  the  girl, 
with  perfect  simplicity,  "if  you  think  I  would 
please  your  wife." 

"  My  wife  ? "  repeated  James  Atwood,  with  a 
strange  laugh.  "  I  haven't  any  wife.  No,  nor  a 
chick  nor  child.  — Come,  we'll  go  right  home  now. 
I'll  send  Roberts  around  for  your  things  this  after 
noon.  Mr.  Marvin,  are  the  horses  there  ?  " 

The  paymaster  looked  out  of  the  window,  over 
the  heads  of  the  howling  mob,  toward  the  gateway. 
The  coachman,  surrounded  by  a  jeering  ring  of 
boys,  was  lashing  his  terrified  black  horses  to  keep 
them  steady. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Roberts  is  there ;  but  wouldn't  it 
be  better,  sir,  under  the  circumstances,  for  you  to 
slip  out  on  to  River  Street  ?  You  know  you  don't 
want  to  get  excited,  sir." 


THE  PLATED    CITY  145 

"  Get  my  hat,  Marvin.  Thank  you.  You  can't 
expect  a  man  at  my  age  to  sneak  out  of  his  own 
factory  by  the  back  door  ?  Hardly  !  Now,  Miss 
Beaulieu,  my  carriage  is  here,  and  we'll  start 
along." 

His  step  was  unsteady  as  he  crossed  the  office, 
but  as  he  flung  open  the  door,  and  the  yells  from 
hundreds  of  voices  smote  him  in  the  face,  he 
flushed  slightly,  and  drew  himself  up,  with  a  fine, 
defiant  toss  of  his  gray  head.  The  whole  passage 
way  was  blocked  to  the  very  gate.  The  girl  by 
his  side  swept  her  glance  over  the  jostling,  vin 
dictive  throng,  the  pointing  fingers,  and  clenched 
fists.  She  turned  deadly  pale,  but  her  eyes  began 
to  blaze ;  oh,  if  Tom  were  only  here  to  clear  a 
path  for  her ! 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Dr.  Atwood,  seeing  that 
she  was  trembling ;  "  they  won't  dare  to  touch 
you;  "  and  then,  still  standing  on  the  topmost  step, 
he  turned  to  her  with  an  old-fashioned  courtliness, 
and  lifting  her  left  hand,  laid  it  within  his  right 
arm. 

"  Fall  back  !  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  rang 
above  the  tumult  like  a  pistol-shot.  "  Fall 
back  !  " 

They  descended  the  long  steps  slowly,  arm  in 
arm,  the  President  of  the  Plate  Works  and  the 
sister  of  Tom  Beaulieu.  Awed  by  the  sheer  will 
power  that  had  vibrated  in  the  "  old  man's  "  pas 
sionate  command,  astonished  at  the  strangeness  of 


146  THE  PLATED   CITY 

that  spectacle,  the  crowd  sullenly  gave  way.  The 
yells  changed  to  hisses,  then  to  mutters,  then  to 
silence,  as  James  Atwood  and  Esther  Beaulieu 
passed  down  the  broad  walk  that  led  to  the  gate 
way,  between  the  thick  files  of  scowling,  open- 
mouthed  faces.  It  was  his  turn  to  be  pale  now, 
and  his  eyes,  lustreless  from  exhaustion,  were  bent 
with  a  melancholy  expression  upon  the  ground ; 
but  the  girl,  as  if  thrilled  by  some  singular  elation, 
walked  erect,  her  hair  bared  to  the  October  wind, 
the  color  surging  back  into  her  lips  and  cheeks, 
her  great  eyes  luminous  with  the  fire  of  uncontrol 
lable  excitement.  Even  the  women  who  stopped 
hissing  to  look  at  her,  as  she  paced  past,  scarcely 
knew  her,  so  utterly  had  her  air  of  shyness  disap 
peared,  so  completely  was  her  grave,  delicate  girl- 
ishness  vitalized  into  a  beauty  that  was  imperial 
and  superb. 

They  reached  the  carriage.  Dr.  Atwood  opened 
the  door  for  her,  with  a  stately  bow,  and  then  half 
turned  to  the  hushed,  wondering  crowd,  as  if  he 
would  have  spoken.  But  he  seemed  to  be  in  a 
sort  of  stupor,  and  murmuring  after  a  moment, 
"  You  may  drive  home,  Roberts,"  he  followed  Miss 
Beaulieu  into  the  carriage  and  sank  back  upon  the 
cushions. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  147 


VIII 

THE  autumn  evening  grew  stormy,  as  the  dark 
ness  fell,  and  the  north  wind,  roaring  down  the 
Mattawanset  Valley,  began  to  tug  at  the  elm 
branches  on  the  Bartonvale  Green,  in  presage  of 
the  winter's  struggle.  Mrs.  Thayer,  in  her  silent, 
flower-filled  room,  lay  waiting  for  Sally  to  return 
from  the  Library.  She  listened  to  the  groaning 
elms,  and  the  swirl  of  dead  leaves  against  the 
window,  with  an  invalid's  nervous  apprehension. 
"  The  harvest  is  past,  the  summer  ended  "  ;  —  the 
cadence  of  the  words  ran  ceaselessly  through  her 
brain.  She  dreaded  the  changing  seasons,  which 
nevertheless  brought  now  so  little  change  to  her. 
Her  part  in  life  was  simply  to  wait  and  pray.  She 
listened  for  her  girl's  footsteps  in  the  fallen  leaves, 
her  heart  going  out  toward  her  with  inexpressi 
ble  desires,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  always  lain 
like  that,  helplessly  waiting,  listening,  yearning. 
And  yet  there  was  so  little  cause  for  dread  !  The 
tiny  house  on  the  corner  of  the  Green  had  outstood 
many  a  north  wind's  roaring,  and  her  geraniums 
bloomed  best  when  the  snow  lay  deepest.  And 
Sally  always  came  in,  after  a  little,  all  the  more 
cheerful,  no  doubt,  for  the  two  or  three  hours 


148  THE  PLATED   CITY 

away  from  the  sick-room.  Sally  was  a  good  girl. 
How  clear-headed  and  practical  and  efficient  she 
had  always  proved;  how  firm  was  the  touch  of 
her  strong  hands ;  how  restful  her  cool,  steady 
voice  as  she  read  aloud  The  Missionary  Herald 
or  the  evening  psalm  !  Yes,  she  was  all  that  a 
daughter  could  be,  except — no  —  yes,  there  was  no 
denying  it  —  she  was  not  always  quite  sympathetic 
with  her  mother's  most  exalted  moods  :  she  failed 
distinctly  in  seriousness  of  manner ;  she  allowed 
herself  occasionally  to  exhibit  at  least  an  outward 
levity  with  regard  to  sacred  things.  She  could 
certainly  not  have  inherited  this  trait.  The  poor 
mother  wondered  occasionally  if  it  could  possibly 
have  come  from  her  having  given  Sally  so  many 
Burmese  idols  to  play  with  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  Perhaps  the  daughter  would  some  day  out 
grow  her  humorous  criticisms  of  their  minister's 
"long  prayer,"  or  her  irresistible  mimicry  of  a 
certain  deacon's  remarks  at  the  weekly  prayer 
meeting,  where  Sally  herself  dutifully  played  the 
hymns.  When  she  married  and  settled  down,  very 
likely  it  would  be  different,  provided  she  were  to 
marry  the  right  person.  And  Sally  was  twenty- 
four  now  —  twenty-four  in  September.  Yet  she 
appeared  not  to  trouble  herself  with  thoughts  of 
the  future.  The  gay-hearted  creature  seemed 
quite  occupied  with  her  mother  and  the  Library, 
and  with  having  a  good  time  as  she  went  along. 
Hark !  was  that  her  step  ?  There  were  two 


THE  PLATED   CITY  149 

people  on  the  sidewalk  —  at  the  gate  —  no,  they 
had  gone  by.  Mrs.  Thayer's  head  fell  back  on 
the  pillow  again.  She  had  hoped  it  was  Sally ; 
Sally,  and  —  yes,  Mr.  Trellys.  He  had  walked 
home  from  the  Library  with  her  many  times  that 
summer  and  early  autumn,  but  of  late,  the  mother 
thought,  his  step  was  less  frequent.  It  grieved 
her  to  grow  aware  of  this.  She  had  encouraged 
Sally's  tennis  playing,  the  year  before,  partly  be 
cause  it  threw  her  into  the  society  of  the  young 
clergyman.  She  could  have  wished,  indeed,  that 
he  were  not  an  Episcopalian,  but  she  kept  herself 
closely  acquainted  with  the  church  work  done  by 
all  denominations  in  Bartonvale,  and  knew  that  no 
one  was  working  harder  or  really  accomplishing 
more  than  Whitesyde  Trellys.  His  influence  over 
Sally  —  in  case  a  certain  contingency  were  actu 
ally  to  be  realized — would  be,  she  felt  sure,  all  that 
her  heart  could  desire.  His  being  an  Episcopalian 
did  not  matter  so  much,  after  all.  The  churches 
were  nearer  together  now  than  when  she  herself 
was  a  girl.  As  long  as  Trellys  was  a  minister, 
and  a  devoted  one,  she  could  trust  her  daughter 
to  him,  if  he  came  and  asked.  But  for  some  reason 
or  other  he  never  came,  at  least  beyond  the  door. 
She  wondered  if  it  were  not  Sally's  fault.  It 
would  have  been  so  like  the  thoughtless  girl  to 
ridicule  him,  if  she  had  ever  detected  in  him  the 
signs  of  sentiment ;  she  always  saw  the  droll  side 
of  things  ;  she  — 


150  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Hush,  there  they  were  now  !  The  wind  quieted 
for  an  instant,  and  the  steps  of  two  people  were 
plainly  heard  as  they  rustled  through  the  elm 
leaves  on  the  path.  Their  voices  murmured  by 
the  steps  ;  she  distinctly  caught  the  tone  of  Sally's 
"Goodnight";  it  was  very  friendly.  The  mother's 
heart  beat  quick  ;  he  had  begun  to  come  again  ! 
Then  Sally's  latch-key  rattled  in  the  door,  and  she 
came  in,  stopping  to  light  the  gas  in  the  dark  hall. 
Sally  always  liked  so  much  light  !  On  she  came 
into  her  mother's  room,  with  a  half-humorous 
greeting,  and  lighting  the  student  lamp  on  the 
invalid's  table,  bent  over  and  kissed  the  delicate, 
pallid  cheek.  The  mother's  answering  kiss  was 
fervid  in  its  intensity  ;  her  heart  was  still  flutter 
ing  with  the  thought  of  Whitesyde  Trellys. 

"  You  are  late,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  peculiar 
smile. 

"  I  know  it.  I'm  real  sorry.  We  loitered  in 
the  Library  a  good  half-hour  after  it  was  time  to 
close.  —  It  was  so  cold,  coining  down.  Do  you 
know,  we  did  a  shocking  thing,  —  we  took  hold  of 
hands  and  ran  down  High  Street  for  two  blocks, 
with  the  wind  at  our  backs.  It  was  glorious." 

"  Sally  !  " 

"  But  it  was  such  fun,  mamma.  It  was  just 
like  being  children  again,  with  winter  coming ! 
And  there  was  simply  nobody  on  the  street,  and 
the  electric  lights  are  out  of  order  again.  Was 
it  so  very  wicked  ?  " 


THE  PLATED    CITY  151 

Mrs.  Thayer  pictured  the  blameless  rector  of 
St.  Asaph's  tearing  down  High  Street  in  the  wind, 
hand  in  hand  with  her  daughter.  But  her  heart 
to-night  was  big  enough  to  accept  anything. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  don't  suppose  it  was  really 
wrong,  that  is,  if  you  were  honestly  trying  to 
make  believe  you  were  children.  But  neverthe 
less,  I  think  if  any  of  Mr.  Trellys's  parishioners 
had  happened  to  see  you,  they  would  have  con 
sidered  it  indecorous." 

The  girl  had  removed  her  cloak  and  hat,  and 
was  amusedly  patting  her  brown  hair  into  place, 
before  her  mother's  gilt-framed  glass.  She  whirled 
around. 

"  Mr.  Trellys's  parishioners  ? "  she  cried,  in 
amazement.  "  Mr.  Trellys  !  Oh,  you  dear  mamma  ! 
Imagine  it  !  I  should  think  they  might  have  con 
sidered  it  indecorous !  "  And  off  she  went  into 
a  gale  of  laughter. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Trellys,  wasn't  it  ?  "  Mrs.  Thayer 
felt  suddenly  rather  foolish,  not  to  say  indiscreet. 

"  Oh  no!     Mercy  no  !     It  was  only  Craig." 

The  widow's  face  fell.  Only  Craig  Kennedy, 
who  had  romped  with  Sally  in  the  front  yard  and 
the  back  yard,  and  built  snow  giants  in  winter 
and  wigwams  in  summer,  and  had  taught  her  to 
skate  and  slide  and  throw  a  ball,  and,  unless  ma 
ternal  prohibitions  had  sternly  intervened,  would 
have  instructed  her  in  the  art  of  climbing  trees 
and  vaulting  fences,  and  other  similar  feats  that 


152  THE  PLATED   CITY 

were  never  attempted  by  nice  little  girls  when 
Mrs.  Thayer  was  young.  Only  Craig  Kennedy, 
and  not  the  Rev.  Whitesyde  Trellys  at  all ! 

"  Craig  always  used  to  try  to  make  a  boy  of 
you,"  she  said  querulously. 

"So  I '  think  I've  heard  you  remark  before," 
was  the  mischievous  answer.  "  I  reminded  him 
of  it  to-night ;  it  was  the  only  fault  you  used  to 
find  with  him." 

"  Is  he  supposed  to  be  doing  well  ?  "  asked  the 
mother,  somewhat  inconsequentially. 

"I  imagine  so.  He  does  a  good  many  small 
things  for  the  Hill  people  ;  they  like  Craig.  And 
he  has  been  making  some  drawings  for  Dr.  At- 
wood  lately :  a  most  mysterious  sort  of  commis 
sion  apparently.  He  is  going  to  show  them  to 
me  sometime,  he  says.  And  that  reminds  me. 
Do  you  know,  the  Plated  City  has  had  a  sensa 
tion  this  afternoon?"  She  seated  herself  by  the 
bedside,  and  stroked  the  invalid's  hand. 

"It's  actually  romantic.  It's  just  like  the 
French  Revolution  and  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  and 
The  Ugly  Duckling,  all  in  one.  You  remember 
Esther  Beaulieu,  don't  you,  mamma,  the  girl 
with  the  bonnets,  you  know,  and  the  grand  air, 
who  reads  all  the  French  books  and  won't  let  me 
get  acquainted  with  her  ?  It  was  her  evening  to 
come  to  the  Library,  but  she  didn't  appear,  and 
then  Craig  told  me  what  had  happened.  It 
seems  there  has  been  trouble  in  the  Plate  Works 


THE  PLATED   CITY  153 

because  Dr.  Atwood  employed  her.  The  other 
operatives  consider  her  a  colored  girl ;  you  know 
they  wouldn't  let  her  teach  in  the  High  School 
when  she  first  came  to  town  —  though  for  that 
matter  Craig  says  that  Mr.  Lewis  traced  all  the 
available  records,  and  no  one  really  knows  whether 
her  mother  was  colored  or  not.  Her  father  was 
a  shiftless  drunken  Frenchman.  Anyway,  the 
operatives  refused  to  work  with  her  any  longer, 
and  this  noon  they  were  going  to  mob  her  when  she 
came  out.  Think  of  it ;  right  here  in  Barton  vale  ! 
There  were  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  them ; 
and  finally  Dr.  Atwood  himself  came  out,  simply 
furious  —  can't  you  imagine  it?  and  Craig  says 
that  he  told  them  —  I  suppose  you  have  to  use 
strong  language  to  those  people,  to  make  any  im 
pression,  don't  you  think  so,  mamma  ?  —  that  they 
could  go  to  the  devil,  one  and  all.  And  then  he 
gave  Miss  Beaulieu  his  arm  just  as  if  she  had  been 
his  own  daughter,  and  led  her  right  through  the 
middle  of  the  mob  —  they  didn't  dare  to  say  a 
word,  not  one  word  —  and  showed  her  into  his 
own  carriage  !  Wasn't  that  splendid  ?  The  dear 
old  gentleman !  " 

"  It  was  just  like  James  Atwood,"  said  the 
widow,  with  closed  eyes.  "  He  always  had  such 
strong  feelings.  And  then  he  was  in  the  war. 
I  suppose  he  knew  just  what  to  do." 

"  But  you  haven't  yet  heard  the  strangest  part 
of  the  story.  Instead  of  driving  her  home,  they 


154  THE  PLATED   CITY 

drove  up  to  the  Atwood  place.  She's  there  now, 
because  the  coachman  went  over  the  river  for  her 
things  this  afternoon.  Apparently  she's  going  to 
stay.  Craig  says  that  all  sorts  of  stories  are 
around  town :  that  the  Doctor  is  going  to  adopt 
her,  or  educate  her,  —  as  far  as  that  goes,  she's 
much  better  educated  than  I  am,  now,  —  or  even 
marry  her." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  remarked  Mrs.  Thayer,  sharply. 

"  Well,  it  is  certainly  very  queer.  But  I  think 
it's  delightfully  entertaining.  The  situation  has 
such  possibilities." 

"  Sally !  " 

"But  hasn't  it,  mamma?  Dear,  dear,  if  Mrs. 
Gascoigne  were  only  back !  She  would  tell  us 
whether  we  ought  to  call  upon  Miss  Beaulieu ! 
To  think  of  the  social  arbiter  of  the  Plated  City 
being  away  at  such  a  time  as  this  !  " 

The  invalid  smiled.  It  was  true  that  with  each 
year  the  social  lines  in  Bartonvale  grew  more 
and  more  complicated,  and  people  were  learning 
to  fall  back  helplessly  upon  Mrs.  Gascoigne's  self- 
appointed  authority  as  a  disentangler ;  but  the 
idea  of  Mrs.  Gascoigne's  troubling  herself  with 
the  social  status  of  the  Beaulieu  girl  was  one  of 
Sally's  ludicrous  extravagances. 

"  You  seem  in  very  good  spirits  to-night,  my 
dear,"  she  said  fondly. 

The  girl  drew  a  full,  satisfied  breath.  "  It  must 
be  the  wind,  or  else  our  run  downhill.  And  you 


THE  PLATED   CITY  155 

thought  it  would  have  been  indecorous  in  Mr. 
Trellys  !  Won't  you  let  me  tell  that  to  Craig?  " 
She  laughed  again,  and  then  glanced  at  her 
mother's  table.  "Well,  would  you  like  me  to 
read  something,  mamma  ? "  There  were  two  or 
three  magazines  there,  besides  the  pile  of  Mission 
ary  Heralds  and  the  Bible. 

"  Nothing  to-night,  my  dear  ;  I  am  a  little  tired. 
Simply  the  Psalm,  if  you  will." 

Sally  found  the  place  in  the  worn  book,  and 
read  in  a  clear,  tranquil  voice,  still  keeping  one 
hand  upon  her  mother's.  The  widow  lay  with  eyes 
closed,  listening  to  the  wonderful,  familiar  words, 
but  in  spite  of  them  her  mind  wandered  a  little. 
Her  daughter  closed  the  book  silently,  and  moved 
around  the  room,  making  the  final  preparations 
for  the  night.  She  came  back  to  the  bedside  with 
a  fresh  glass  of  water,  and  stooped  to  turn  over 
her  mother's  pillow. 

"Sally,"  said  Mrs.  Thayer,  abruptly.  "I  —  I 
wish  it  had  been  Mr.  Trellys." 

"  You  poor,  poor  mamma  !  Is  that  your  little 
bedtime  confession  ?  I  suspected  it.  I'm  so 
sorry  for  you."  Her  tone  was  very  rueful.  Then 
she  straightened  herself,  and  looked  at  her  mother 
with  a  queer,  whimsical  smile.  "  I  ought  to  make 
a  confession  too,  mamma,  about  Mr.  Trellys.  You 
mustn't  think  of  him  in  —  in  that  way  any  more  ; 
you  really  mustn't.  I'm  afraid  I've  disappointed 
you,  mamma." 


156  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Sarah  Thayer,  you  haven't  refused  him  ?  " 

She  nodded  gravely.  "Weeks  ago.  It  was  at 
the  time  you  were  worse,  and  I  feared  it  would 
excite  you  if  I  spoke  of  it  then.  You  mustn't 
mind  it.  I'm  so  sorry.  I  know  you  liked  him  : 
and  so  do  I  —  that  is  to  say,  yes,  I  really  do,  but 
as  for  anything  else  —  "  she  shook  her  head.  Mr. 
Trellys  had  been  quite  right  in  remarking  that 
Miss  Thayer' s  mouth,  on  some  occasions,  was  firm. 

"  I  am  disappointed,"  said  the  mother,  in  a 
quavering  voice.  "  Mr.  Trellys  is  a  man  of  God." 
Something  in  the  phrase  roused  a  latent  antago 
nism  in  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  she  replied  drily.  "  But 
when  you  think  of  looking  at  a  man  across  the 
breakfast  table,  year  in  and  year  out  — "  She 
caught  the  expression  on  her  mother's  face,  and 
stopped  contritely.  "  Forgive  me,  dear." 

The  invalid  put  out  her  thin  hands.  "  You 
must  follow  your  own  heart,  my  child.  I  try 
not  to  forget  that.  But  you  must  be  prayerful. 
Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  read  the  heart."  The 
good-night  kisses  were  given,  and  the  girl  turned 
to  extinguish  the  student  lamp, 

"  Sally,"  asked  the  widow,  her  mind  after  all 
not  quite  at  rest.  "  You  didn't  refuse  Mr.  Trellys 
because  —  because  there  is  any  one  else,  did  you  ?  " 

Miss  Thayer  blew  out  the  lamp  without  replying, 
and  bent  above  her  mother  in  the  darkness.  Her 
warm  lips  brushed  slowly  over  the  faded  satin  of 


THE  PLATED   CITY  157 

the  elder  woman's  cheek.  "  You  dear  old  inquisi 
torial  mamma,"  she  whispered  affectionately. 
"How  soft  your  cheeks  are. — I  don't  know." 

The  quiet  house  on  the  corner  of  the  Green  was 
not  the  only  one  in  Bartonvale  that  night  where 
Dr.  Atwood's  singular  performance  was  a  topic  of 
discussion.  The  young  fellows  at  the  Mattawan- 
set  Club  could  talk  of  little  else,  and  hazarded  the 
most  extraordinary  conjectures  as  to  the  Doctor's 
motives  in  championing  the  Beaulieu  girl.  They 
exchanged  a  dozen  versions  of  what  had  taken 
place  at  the  gateway  of  the  Works,  and  were  still 
at  it,  toward  the  end  of  the  evening,  when  Nor 
man  Lewis  sauntered  into  the  smoking-room.  He 
had  been  making  a  stump  speech  down  town,  in 
furtherance  of  his  campaign  for  the  State  Legis 
lature,  whither  his  party,  which  was  in  a  hopeless 
minority  in  the  Plated  City,  was  now  trying  for 
the  third  time  to  send  him.  His  political  pros 
pects  seemed  no  more  encouraging  than  in  the 
two  previous  campaigns,  in  spite  of  his  personal 
popularity,  and  he  felt  jaded  in  mind  and  body  as 
he  climbed  the  Hill  to  the  gambrel-roofed  house 
occupied  by  the  Club. 

"  Here's  Lewis  !  "  was  the  greeting  of  a  dozen 
voices  as  he  came  in.  "  Lewis,  what's  your  idea 
about  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  for  ideas  ;  I'm  fresh  from  the 
rally.  Has  some  one  a  cigar  ?  Well,  what's  up  ?  " 


158  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  The  strike."  —  "  There  isn't  any  strike  ;  I  tell 
you  the  'old  man  '  backed  down  !  "  —  "He  never 
backed  down  in  his  life  ;  did  he,  Norman  ?  "  —  "  Of 
course  there's  a  strike  !  "  —  "  Will  he  have  the 
nerve  to  marry  her  ?  "  —  "  Say,  is  she  really  Tom's 
sister,  after  all?  " 

Lewis  lighted  one  of  the  proffered  cigars,  and 
then  ran  a  pitying  eye  over  the  circle  of  excited 
questioners. 

"You  are  a  most  romantic  lot,  I  must  say. 
What  this  club  needs  is  a  few  more  prosaic  old 
fellows  like  myself,  for  ballast." 

"  Hear  him  !  He  has  more  romance  than  all  of 
us  put  together,"  growled  the  man  who  knew 
Lewis  best. 

The  lawyer  disregarded  the  interruption.  "  The 
cold  fact  is,"  he  went  on,  blowing  some  smoke  into 
his  clean-cut,  brown  beard,  —  "I  got  it  straight 
from  Marvin,  who  saw  the  whole  thing  —  the 
Doctor  wanted  a  cook.  He  saw  a  chance  to 
secure  one,  and  bore  her  off  triumphantly.  That 
is  positively  all  there  was  to  it.  I'm  sorry  to  prick 
your  bubble." 

"  Much  you  are  !  "  was  the  ironical  retort  from 
one  of  the  circle ;  but  Lewis,  to  the  disgust  of 
everybody,  strolled  away  to  the  reading-room, 
without  a  word,  and  buried  himself  in  an  even 
ing  paper. 

If  the  prosaic  version  of  what  had  occurred  at 
the  Atwood  Works  failed  to  satisfy  the  habitues 


THE  PLATED   CITY  159 

of  the  Mattawanset  Club,  it  was  felt  to  be  still 
more  unsatisfactory  to  the  imagination  among 
the  residents  of  Nigger  Hill.  The  theory  there 
favored  was  that  the  Beaulieu  girl  had  already 
been  adopted  by  Dr.  Atwood,  who  was  well 
understood  to  be  capable  of  doing  anything  that 
he  took  into  his  head.  Mrs.  Cyrus  Calhoun  heard 
the  news  with  undisguised  rejoicing.  It  confirmed 
her  own  constant  conviction  that  Cyrus  had  had 
the  truth  from  the  lips  of  Mammy  Hudson.  The 
negro  quarter  in  general  was  content  to  interpret 
the  intelligence  in  the  same  fashion.  Very  likely 
the  Beaulieu  girl  was  really  white ;  the  jealousy 
of  her  felt  at  the  time  of  Tom's  "  emancipation  " 
had  already  since  his  departure  lapsed  into  greater 
or  less  indifference  to  her  career.  At  her  boarding- 
house,  where  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Atwood's  coach 
man,  in  quest  of  Miss  Beaulieu's  portmanteau  and 
other  belongings,  had  created  a  temporary  sensa 
tion,  it  was  felt  that  she  had  been  lonely  and 
probably  wretched  enough  to  deserve  whatever 
undefined  good  fortune  had  come  to  her.  None 
of  her  fellow-workmen  had  boarded  there,  and  the 
hatred  she  had  encountered  on  the  streets  had  not 
yet  made  itself  felt  at  the  table.  On  the  whole, 
the  attitude  of  her  fellow-boarders  towards  Miss 
Beaulieu's  migration  across  the  river  was  that  of 
respectful  good  will. 

Not  so  with  the  employees  of  the  Atwood  Plate 
Works.      Taking  advantage    of    the   absence    of 


160  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  President  that  afternoon,  the  diplomatic  pay 
master  went  here  and  there  through  the  shops, 
spreading  confidentially  the  unofficial  intelligence 
that  the  Beaulieu  girl  was  no  longer  to  be  em 
ployed.  The  Plate  Girls'  Union  accepted  these 
tidings  as  a  vindication  of  their  personal  hostility 
toward  the  scab,  and  as  a  notable  triumph  for  the 
cause  of  labor.  Apparently  the  "  old  man  "  had 
weakened,  in  spite  of  his  defiant  tone.  It  was 
currently  believed  for  a  few  hours  that  he  had 
had — in  mysterious  connection  with  the  process 
of  weakening  —  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  which  might 
have  accounted  for  his  peculiar  demeanor  while 
walking  to  his  carriage.  Mr.  Marvin  asserted, 
however,  that  the  President  was  perfectly  well, 
and  would  be  at  his  desk  the  next  morning  as 
usual.  At  any  rate,  the  Beaulieu  girl  was  out 
of  the  Atwood  Works  for  good,  and  whether  or 
not  the  Doctor  meant  to  make  her  his  wife,  his 
housekeeper,  or  his  heir  —  all  of  which  statements 
were  very  positively  made  in  the  shops  during  the 
course  of  the  afternoon,  —  she  was  of  no  further 
interest  to  the  Central  Labor  Committee.  Having 
gained  their  immediate  object,  they  decided,  to  the 
deep  wrath  of  Mr.  John  R.  Donovan,  that  it 
would  be  more  prudent  to  defer  for  the  present 
the  contemplated  general  strike. 

Meanwhile  Esther  Beaulieu  herself  was  far  too 
eagerly  occupied  for  any  reflections  either  as  to 


THE  PLATED   CITY  161 

the  excitement  she  had  caused,  or  the  new  exist 
ence  that  opened  before  her.  When  the  Doctor's 
carriage  passed  under  the  shadows  of  the  huge 
pines  that  marked  the  boundary  of  the  Atwood 
place,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  endeavored  to  rouse 
himself  from  the  stupor  in  which  he  had  lain 
since  that  last  troubled  look  at  the  strikers. 

"  Here  we  are,"  he  said.  "  I  must  tell  Roberts 
to  rake  up  those  leaves. — Pretty  prospect  from 
up  here  ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

They  stopped  at  the  side  door.  Miss  Beaulieu 
descended  first,  and  as  the  Doctor's  foot  seemed 
to  move  uncertainly  toward  the  carriage  step,  she 
gave  him  her  hand.  The  coachman's  wife,  who 
lived  above  the  stable,  had  come  over  to  the  house 
to  do  some  cleaning,  and  was  waiting  on  the  door 
step  for  Roberts's  return.  Alarmed  at  the  Doc 
tor's  pallor,  she  ran  to  Esther's  assistance,  and  the 
two  women  helped  him  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
made  him  lie  down  upon  the  haircloth  sofa. 
Then  Mrs.  Roberts  scrutinized  the  newcomer. 

"  It's  the  cook,"  explained  the  master  of  the 
house.  "  Show  her  where  things  are,  and  between 
you  get  me  a  cup  of  tea  ;  nothing  else." 

The  women  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  where 
Mrs.  Roberts,  still  marvelling  at  the  cook's  per 
sonal  appearance,  was  kindness  and  efficiency 
itself.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Esther  brought 
the  tea.  The  Doctor  drank  it  off,  and  lay  back 
upon  the  sofa. 


162  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  I  want  to  go  to  sleep  now,"  he  said.  "  Can 
you  read  and  write  ?  Oh,  I  forgot,  —  you're  the 
great  reader,  of  course.  Go  into  the  office  there  " 
—  he  pointed  to  a  dark-panelled,  low-ceilinged 
room  opening  from  the  sitting-room  —  "  and 
write  to  Mr.  Marvin.  Tell  him  I  shan't  be 
back  to-day,  but  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow 
morning.  Roberts  will  take  it  down.  You 
can  tell  Roberts  where  to  go  for  your  trunk,  — 
if  you've  got  one,  —  arid  he'll  stop  at  the  market 
and  the  grocer's  and  order  whatever  you  need  for 
the  table.  I  want  supper  at  six  fifteen  and  break 
fast  at  six  twenty-five.  I  guess  that's  everything." 
Whereupon  he  curled  down  upon  the  sofa,  and 
Miss  Beaulieu  peeping  in  from  the  writing-table 
in  the  office  five  minutes  later,  as  she  finished  the 
note  to  Mr.  Marvin,  saw  that  he  was  asleep.  She 
stole  back,  drew  down  the  curtains,  and  covered 
the  autocrat  of  the  Plated  City  with  a  faded 
shawl.  Then  she  closed  the  door  softly  and  went 
to  find  Roberts. 

The  girl  passed  a  curious  afternoon.  Mrs.  Rob 
erts  brought  her  something  to  eat,  and  instructed 
her  in  the  peculiarities  of  the  kitchen  range.  If  it 
were  not  for  her  babies,  and  the  washing  she  took 
in,  Mrs.  Roberts  averred,  she  would  like  nothing 
better  than  cooking  for  the  Doctor  herself.  If 
the  meals  were  only  prompt,  he  was  easily  suited ; 
not  being  "great  for  new-fangled  things  to  eat." 
She  returned  to  her  babies  and  her  ironing  after  a 


THE  PLATED   CITY  163 

while,  leaving  Esther  to  explore  the  pantries  and 
the  china  closet,  where  the  Doctor's  long  line  of 
waitresses  had  made  havoc  of  his  mother's  delicate 
sprigged  china.  The  latest  occupant  of  the 
kitchen  had  left  a  pile  of  dirty  dishes  in  the  sink, 
and  Esther  washed  them,  wondering  at  the  house 
keeping  of  the  States.  Xante  Beaulieu's  immacu 
late  kitchen  had  always  been  the  admiration  of 
the  women  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques.  The  provis 
ions  which  the  new  cook  had  hesitatingly  ordered 
were  long  in  coining,  and  she  wandered  out  of  the 
kitchen  door  at  last,  and  through  the  garden, 
already  blackened  by  the  frosts,  and  so  around  to 
the  front  of  the  house.  She  drew  a  long  breath 
of  pleasure  ;  how  beautiful  it  was  here,  with  the 
great  lawn  sweeping  away  to  the  giant  pines,  in 
whose  branches  the  north  wind  was  keenly  sing 
ing;  and  with  the  steel-colored  Mattawanset 
stretching  for  miles  and  miles  down  the  valley, 
past  smoky  towns  and  bright  patches  of  October 
woodland,  toward  the  mist-hidden  Sound  !  She  • 
strolled  southward  to  the  very  edge  of  the  lawn ; 
the  Plated  City  lay  at  her  feet.  How  it  had 
seemed  to  hate  her  ;  and  yet  how  free  of  its 
clutches  she  stood  this  afternoon  !  Little  by  little 
she  found  her  bearings  among  the  huddled  chim 
neys  and  drifting  smoke ;  there  was  the  station 
with  the  fierce  little  engines  switching  and  switch 
ing  in  front  of  it,  where  she  had  arrived  from 
Quebec  scarcely  six  months  before.  Those  long 


164  THE  PLATED   CITY 

slate  roofs  by  the  river  must  be  the  Atwood 
Works  ;  the  queer  circle  far  down  upon  the  Flats 
was  the  ball  ground ;  one  of  those  yellow  houses, 
clinging  to  the  side  of  the  sand-hills  away  over 
beyond  the  Mattawanset,  was  the  boarding-place 
where  she  had  lived  with  Tom.  For  a  moment 
she  lost  sight  of  the  panorama  below  her  in  won 
dering  what  Tom  would  say  if  he  saw  her  now. 
Would  his  newly  awakened  pride  resent  her  posi 
tion  as  Dr.  Atwood's  kitchen  servant  ?  Very  pos 
sibly.  For  herself  she  had  learned  too  well  the 
lessons  of  the  last  six  months  to  have  any  pride 
about  the  way  she  earned  her  bread.  The  exulta 
tion  that  had  sent  the  blood  thrilling  through  her 
veins  that  noon  was  mainly  that  of  a  personal  tri 
umph  over  enemies  who  would  not  grant  her  a 
fair  chance  in  the  struggle  ;  toward  the  man  who 
had  treated  her  as  an  equal,  in  the  face  of  that 
vindictive  mob,  she  felt  a  passion  of  gratitude  that 
would  have  made  any  service  a  delight. 

It  was  with  a  quick  instinct  of  affection  that 
she  recalled  herself  from  her  dreamy,  triumphant 
survey  of  the  Plated  City,  and  hastened  back  to 
the  kitchen.  The  provisions  were  waiting  for 
her,  and  a  peep  through  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room  assured  her  that  the  Doctor  was  still  in  a 
heavy  sleep.  She  summoned  every  memory  of 
Tante  Beaulieu's  teachings  for  the  task  of  pre 
paring  a  supper  that  would  tempt  the  appetite, 
and  hovered  around  the  range  with  feverish  en- 


TUE  PLATED   CITY  165 

ergy.  At  a  quarter  to  six  she  laid  the  cloth,  and 
found  the  silver  basket.  The  table  silver  was 
marked  with  initials  that  she  took  to  be  the  Doc 
tor's  mother's  ;  at  any  rate,  it  was  fashioned  before 
the  days  of  electro-plate.  At  six  she  lighted  a 
fire  on  the  dining-room  hearth,  for  the  north  wind 
kept  rising,  —  and  at  six  fifteen  precisely  she 
tapped  on  the  sitting-room  door.  Dr.  Atwood 
was  already  awake.  In  a  moment  he  appeared, 
looking  at  the  table  and  Esther  Beaulieu  in  a 
dazed  fashion,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  how  she 
came  to  be  there.  She  had  discovered  a  pair  of 
silver  candlesticks  in  the  sideboard  and  managed 
after  a  long  search  to  equip  'them  with  candles. 
They  caught  the  Doctor's  eye. 

"  Where  did  you  find  these  ? "  he  exclaimed. 
"My  mother  used  to  begin  on  the  tenth  day  of 
September,  every  year,  to  light  those  candles  for 
supper.  That  was  her  wedding-day.  I  suppose 
the  girls  I've  been  hiring  thought  it  was  less 
trouble  to  light  a  lamp.  Well,  well !  " 

He  bent  over  and  examined  the  date  upon  the 
old  wedding  gift,  but  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  sit 
down.  At  last  he  perceived  the  peculiar  fragrance 
of  the  coffee.  People  often  used  to  stop  in  the 
Rue  St.  Jacques  to  get  a  good  sniff  of  the  coffee 
made  by  Tante  Beaulieu. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  am  hungry,  after  all," 
he  said  benevolently,  seating  himself.  "What's 
this?" 


166  THE  PLATED   CITY 

She  hesitated.  "We  call  it  omelette  aux  fines 
herbes.  I  do  not  know  what  your  name  for  it  is." 

The  cook  trembled,  as  the  Doctor  took  the  first 
mouthful. 

"  Well,  it's  real  nice,  ain't  it  !  "  he  said,  to  her 
immense  relief.  His  naturalness  was  rapidly  re 
turning.  She  was  standing  behind  his  chair, 
where  servants  always  stood  in  fiction. 

"  Say,  you  make  me  nervous,"  he  exclaimed, 
after  another  minute  or  two.  "  Just  as  if  I  was 
in  New  York.  —  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Have  you  eaten  anything  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  surprised  answer. 

"  And  I  don't  seem  to  remember  much  about 
our  getting  any  dinner  to-day."  He  glanced 
around  the  room.  "  Draw  up  one  of  those  chairs, 
and  get  a  plate  and  knife  and  fork." 

She  protested,  her  cheeks  flushing  with  embar 
rassment,  but  she  dared  not  disobey. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  try  a  little  of  this  yourself. 
My  mother  always  used  to  do  the  cooking  when 
I  was  a  boy.  People  didn't  see  the  harm  in  those 
days  of  cooking  the  victuals  and  sitting  right 
down  to  the  table  and  eating  them.  And  after 
mother  began  to  have  a  girl,  the  girl  always  sat 
down  with  the  family.  These  new-fashioned  ideas 
have  come  in  since  the  war.  I  don't  know  as  I 
think  much  of  them."  His  manner  was  half 
reminiscent,  half  a  blunt  endeavor  to  set  her  at 
ease.  She  placed  a  chair  opposite  him,  and  toyed 


THE  PLATED   CITY  167 

with  some  of  the  delicacies  with  which  he  had 
heaped  her  plate.  The  candle-light  shone  full  in 
her  dark,  excited  eyes,  and  Dr.  Atwood  grew 
aware,  for  the  first  time,  of  her  singular  beauty. 
It  heightened  his  sense  of  the  oddness  of  the 
situation. 

"Let's  talk  it  all  over,"  he  said;  "I  want  to 
know  how  you  came  to  come  to  Bartonvale,  and 
what  sort  of  life  they've  made  you  lead  here.  Who 
were  your  father  and  mother  ?  " 

For  a  half-hour  he  plied  her  with  shrewd, 
kindly  questions,  and  Esther  Beaulieu  told  him 
everything  about  her  father,  whom  he  dimly  re 
membered  ;  her  mother,  about  whom  she  knew 
scarcely  anything  herself ;  her  aunt  Beaulieu  and 
the  happy  life  in  Quebec  ;  then  about  Tom  and  how 
she  came  to  join  him  ;  Tom's  struggle  for  social 
reinstatement,  and  her  own  efforts  to  make  a  liv 
ing  in  the  Plated  City,  in  spite  of  the  color  line, 
down  to  the  time  when  he  had  given  her  a  posi 
tion  in  the  brush-backing  room  at  the  Works. 
She  omitted  any  reference  to  the  blue  heron  epi 
sode,  and  finding  that  the  Doctor  was  not  enthusi 
astic  over  Tom's  profession,  she  said  little  about 
his  California  venture  ;  but  in  the  main  she  poured 
out  her  heart  to  him,  and  he  listened  with  grow 
ing  admiration  and  surprise.  When  he  rose  at 
last,  and,  in  giving  the  necessary  directions  as  to 
her  room  and  the  breakfast  hour,  was  forced  again 
to  assume  the  role  of  bachelor  master  of  the  house 


168 


addressing  a  new  servant,  it  was  his  turn  to  be 
embarrassed.  She  had  shown  such  evident  refine 
ment,  such  courage  and  frankness  as  well  as  purely 
feminine  charm,  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  scarcely 
had  the  right  to  finish  their  conversation  by  order 
ing  her,  with  the  grimness  of  long  authority,  to 
set  her  alarm  clock  for  a  certain  hour  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  had  a  momentary  misgiving  lest  he  might 
have  gone  too  far  in  asking  her  to  seat  herself  at 
his  table ;  his  ostentatious  democracy  to-night 
might  make  it  seem  bitterly  hard  for  her  to  take 
up  again  her  servant's  part.  But  she  listened  to 
his  commands  with  an  irreproachable  deference 
that  betrayed  no  sense  of  offended  dignity.  An 
hour  later,  as  he  sat  trying  to  read  by  the  wretched 
lamp  in  his  office,  she  paused  at  the  door  to  bid 
him  a  timid  "  good  night,"  and  he  soon  heard  her 
light  tread  passing  back  and  forth  in  the  room 
above  him.  By  and  by  his  newspaper  slipped  into 
his  lap,  and  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  musing 
over  her  story,  until  long  after  the  footsteps  ceased. 
Esther  Beaulieu  was  soon  hushed  to  sleep  by  the 
hoarse  swaying  of  the  Atwood  pines,  but  her 
dreams  carried  her  far  northward.  She  was  once 
more  a  little  girl,  trying  to  write  correctly,  at 
Xante  Beaulieu's  dictation,  a  recipe  for  omelettes 
aux  fines  herbeS. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  169 


IX 


AT  six  twenty -five  the  next  morning  the  Doc 
tor's  breakfast  was  awaiting  him,  and  at  ten  min 
utes  before  seven  the  black  horses  were  as  usual 
at  the  door.  He  had  had  little  conversation  with 
the  new  domestic  during  the  meal ;  she  was  occu 
pied  in  keeping  him  supplied  with  hot  toast  and 
fresh  pancakes. 

"  This  isn't  going  to  be  too  hard  work  for 
you  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  pulled  on  his  gloves.  "  I've 
had  to  keep  two  girls,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  not  too  hard.  And 
it  makes  me  very  happy  to  be  here."  There  was 
a  childishness  about  that  sentence  that  touched 
him.  He  thought  about  it  all  the  way  down 
town. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  new  cook?  "  Mr.  Marvin 
ventured  to  inquire  jocosely,  during  the  course  of 
the  forenoon. 

"  Very  much,"  was  the  dry  answer,  and  the  sub 
ject  was  dropped. 

To  the  men  in  the  office  Dr.  Atwood  seemed 
preoccupied  and  haggard.  He  made  no  reference 
to  the  events  of  the  day  before,  but  he  omitted 
his  usual  inspection  of  the  Works,  and  it  was  easy 


170  THE  PLATED   CITY 

to  see  that  he  had  not  recovered  from  the  strain 
he  had  undergone.  For  the  first  time  in  his  busi 
ness  life  he  had  felt  the  ground  giving  way  be 
neath  his  feet.  His  had  perhaps  been  the  victory 
for  the  hour,  but  he  knew  that  Esther  Beaulieu's 
sacrifice  of  her  position  had  purchased  for  him 
only  a  postponement.  And  he  felt  no  heart  for 
the  struggle:  the  pain  of  seeing  faithful  old 
employees  like  Fennessey  arrayed  in  unreason 
ing  opposition  to  him  had  been  too  great.  He 
went  mechanically  through  his  correspondence, 
however,  and  betrayed  by  no  word  or  action,  so 
far  as  he  was  aware,  his  forebodings  of  the  future. 

Towards  noon  a  new  reporter  for  the  local  paper 
succeeded  in  penetrating  to  the  inner  office. 

"  Dr.  Atwood,"  he  asked,  pencil  and  pad  in 
hand,  "how  do  you  stand  on  the  Labor  Ques 
tion?" 

"  I  stand  on  top,"  flashed  back  the  Doctor,  but 
the  fighting  quality  was  out  of  his  voice,  and  he 
was  grateful  to  Marvin  for  beckoning  the  fellow 
away.  By  night  he  felt  exhausted.  It  reminded 
him  of  the  weariness  he  had  felt  in  those  venture 
some,  exciting  months  after  the  war,  when  with 
no  business  experience  and  the  slenderest  capital, 
he  had  nevertheless  put  the  Atwood  Plate  Works 
to  the  forefront  of  the  industries  of  Bartonvale. 
But  then  he  was  more  than  a  score  of  years 
younger,  and  in  his  pulses  there  had  seemed  to 
be  a  boundless  vitality  and  zest.  Then  he  had 


THE  PLATED   CITY  171 

faced  the  future ;  and  that  future,  year  by  year, 
had  granted  him  the  success  he  demanded  at  its 
hands,  but  at  fifty-eight  his  zest  was  gone.  As 
his  horses  slowly  climbed  the  Hill  to  the  Atwood 
place,  the  Doctor  grew  conscious  that  he  was  old, 
and  when  he  sat  down  with  his  newspaper  after 
supper  he  felt  older  still.  The  lines  wavered ;  in 
vain  he  wiped  his  spectacles  and  turned  up  the 
lamp.  It  was  not  the  lamp's  fault,  clearly  ;  for 
it  had  that  day  been  trimmed  and  polished  in  a 
fashion  that  had  long  been  strange  to  it. 

"  My  eyes  must  be  going  at  last,"  murmured 
Dr.  Atwood  to  himself,  querulously. 

Esther  Beaulieu  was  watching  him  through  the 
sitting-room  door.  She  plucked  up  courage. 

"  Could  I  read  to  you,  Dr.  Atwood  ?  "  she  ven 
tured.  "  I  used  to  read  to  my  aunt,  every  even 
ing.  But  I  make  so  many  mistakes  when  I  read 
English  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"  You've  done  enough  to-day,  I  guess,"  he 
replied.  "  But  I  did  want  to  read  a  little  about 
the  election  prospects." 

"  Let  me  try, "  she  said ;  and  he  handed  her  the 
Tribune,  and  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  light. 
For  an  hour  she  read  to  him.  Her  mistakes  were 
indeed  many,  and  some  of  them  so  delicious  that 
if  he  had  not  been  so  weary  he  would  have  laughed. 
Nor  did  she  understand  in  the  least  \vhat  all  the 
election  excitement  was  about.  She  read  gravely, 


172  THE  PLATED   CITY 

with  a  tentative,  shy  pause  after  the  words  that 
were  new  to  her  as  if  waiting  for  his  verdict  upon 
her  effort.  But  he  did  not  speak.  He  lay  back 
in  his  easy  chair,  with  closed  eyes,  less  heedful  of 
the  election  intelligence  than  of  the  low -keyed 
music  of  her  voice,  with  its  soft,  foreign,  hesi 
tant  intonations,  that  fell  upon  his  ear  like  a 
caress. 

The  next  night  and  the  next  she  read  to  him  in 
similar  fashion,  and  Dr.  Atwood  sat  listening  and 
thinking.  Before  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  ser 
vice  he  drove  home  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
and  found  her  washing  the  kitchen  windows. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  said.  "  It's  too  hard  work 
for  you  to  be  in  the  kitchen  all  day,  and  then  to 
save  my  eyes  in  the  evening.  I've  been  thinking 
it  over.  In  fact,  I've  just  come  from  the  intelli 
gence  office.  You  needn't  get  supper  to-night. 
There's  a  Welsh  girl  coming  up  to  do  all  that." 

Esther  Beaulieu  looked  at  him  in  some  alarm. 
"  I  am  not  very  tired,"  she  replied.  "  And  what 
do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

He  hesitated,  with  a  kindly,  half-embarrassed 
smile.  "The  Welsh  girl  wants  to  cook.  They  tell 
me  she's  a  good  one,  and  she's  willing  to  come. 
She  could  cook,  you  know,  and  you  could  wipe 
the  dishes,  and  —  and  —  dust.  That  was  my 
idea.  But  the  peculiar  thing  about  the  Welsh 
girl  is  this  :  she  has  a  sister.  They  have  always 
worked  together  ;  the  sister  wipes  the  dishes,  you 


THE  PLATED   CITY  173 

see,  and  dusts.  I  can't  get  one  without  the  other, 
and  I  must  have  one  of  'em  anyway,  and  —  well, 
it's  going  to  be  a  hard  winter  for  working  people 
—  and  so  I  told  them  to  come  ahead.  They're  on 
the  way  now." 

"  And  I  ?  "  said  Esther  Beaulieu. 

"  Exactly,"  replied  Dr.  Atwood,  triumphantly. 
"  I've  thought  it  all  over.  You  could  go  to  the 
door.  This  girl's  sister  didn't  say  anything  about 
going  to  the  door,  though  I  suppose  she  could 
any  time,  if  you  were  busy.  And  you  could  read 
to  me  in  the  evenings  —  a  good  long  time,  every 
evening.  Then  you  could  see  to  things  in  the 
front  part  of  the  house.  — My  mother,  now,  used 
to  have  flowers  in  the  sitting-room  window,  all 
winter  long.  It  used  to  take  her  a  good  deal  of 
time,  every  day,  to  tend  just  to  them.  And  I 
guess  you  could  give  the  orders  for  the  market, 
couldn't  you,  and  see  that  the  meals  were  on  time, 
and  all  that?  The  truth  is,  I've  had  to  bother 
with  those  things  long  enough.  I'm  getting  to 
be  an  old  man." 

Miss  Beaulieu's  eyes  were  full  of  perplexity. 
Her  first  impulse  was  one  of  girlish  pleasure ; 
then  her  gaze  fell,  and  the  old  fear,  forgotten  now 
for  a  few  days,  swept  over  her.  A  richer  hue 
came  into  her  dark  cheek.  "  Would  they  be 
willing  to  work  with  me?"  she  asked.  "In  the 
shops,  you  know,  and  the  school,  they  said  —  " 
She  stopped.  Ah,  the  dreaded  color  line  ! 


174  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  kindly  old  autocrat  nodded,  with  a  bellige 
rent  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "You  needn't  worry 
about  that.  They  might  or  might  not  work  with 
you  ;  that  ain't  the  question ;  they're  coming  to 
work  for  you  !  Do  you  see  ?  " 

She  still  looked  troubled. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  confessed,  "  I  told  those  Welsh 
girls  that  I  had  a  housekeeper,  and  that  they  were 
to  take  their  orders  from  you.  I  explained  that 
the  housekeeper  would  sit  at  the  table  with  me, 
and  have  the  general  charge  of  things.  They 
understand  it ;  I  told  'em  to  think  it  all  over 
before  they  made  up  their  minds  to  come  !  You 
don't  need  to  bother  yourself  about  that,  Esther, 
not  a  mite,  not  a  mite.  Now  if  I  were  you,  I'd 
fix  up  a  little  and  be  in  the  front  part  of  the  house 
when  they  get  here.  I've  got  to  go  down  town 
again.  If  you  begin  right  with  'em,  everything'll 
be  right." 

The  Doctor  delivered  his  closing  sentence  with 
a  sententiousness  born  of  long  experience,  but  it 
was  quite  wasted  on  Pierre  Beaulieu's  daughter. 
She  comprehended  at  last  the  full  scope  of  his 
eccentric  kindness  to  her,  and  stood  gazing  into 
his  eyes  with  quick,  deep  breaths.  Then,  in 
obedience  to  some  alien-born  impulse  that  recked 
not  of  the  conventional  usages  of  the  States,  she 
caught  at  her  amazed  benefactor's  hand,  and 
bending,  touched  it  with  her  lips. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  175 

The  forenoon  after  the  election,  Dr.  Atwood 
telephoned  for  Norman  Lewis  to  come  around  to 
the  Works. 

"  Sorry,  Norman,"  he  said  cheerfully,  as  the 
lawyer  entered  the  office.  "I  couldn't  vote  for 
you,  you  know,  but  I'm  glad  you  made  so  good 
a  run." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lewis.  "  It's  over,  anyhow, 
and  that's  something  to  be  grateful  for.  And  I'm 
quite  used  to  being  beaten.  It's  the  third  time." 

"  Well,  they  say  '  three  times  and  out,'  Norman, 
and  I  hope  you'll  pull  out  of  it  now.  Leave  poli 
tics  alone,  or  else  come  over  to  the  respectable 
side.  Those  fellows  will  work  you  just  as  long  as 
they  think  it  best  to  put  up  a  decent  candidate, 
for  the  sake  of  appearances,  but  you'll  find  they'll 
drop  you  like  a  hot  potato,  as  soon  as  they  can 
carry  the  town.  The  ungrateful  devils  !  " 

"There  seems  to  be  no  immediate  danger  of 
their  dropping  me,  then,"  replied  Lewis,  smiling. 
"  And  meantime  I  shall  stick  to  my  own  side.  — 
Well,  what's  this  about  the  watered  stock,  Doc 
tor  ?  " 

The  men  plunged  into  a  long  conversation  about 
some  investments  of  the  Doctor's,  which  were 
causing  him  increasing  anxiety.  He  had  a  good 
deal  of  confidence  in  Norman  Lewis's  judgment, 
and  noticed  that  Lewis  took  essentially  the  same 
view  of  the  case  as  did  a  distinguished  lawyer 
he  had  already  consulted  in  New  York.  Unfortu- 


176  THE  PLATED   CITY 

nately,  it  was  not  that  view  of  the  case  which 
was  particularly  hopeful  for  Dr.  Atwood,  and  the 
younger  man  was  impressed  as  never  before  with 
the  signs  of  irresolution  and  shifting  opinion  in 
the  man  whose  name  had  been  in  Bartonvale  a 
synonym  for  prompt,  clear-headed  action.  He 
wondered  if  it  were  not  true,  after  all,  that  the 
threatened  strike  at  the  Works  had  hit  the  Doctor 
pretty  hard.  Their  conversation  was  renewed 
again  and  again  during  November,  usually  in 
the  President's  down-town  office,  but  once  in 
awhile,  of  an  evening,  in  the  house  on  the  Hill. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  interviews  that  Craig 
Kennedy  asked  his  roommate  in  an  apparently 
casual  fashion  how  much  he  supposed  Dr.  Atwood 
was  worth. 

"  Well,"  was  the  indifferent  reply,  "  he's  worth 
more  than  you  or  I,  Craig.  Of  course  when  I  sell 
my  Western  securities,  that  may  alter  the  situ 
ation  !  "  Lewis  was  in  good  spirits  that  night 
and  gave  himself  the  rare  privilege  of  joking 
about  the  burden  he  was  carrying  for  his  father's 
sake. 

"  Doubtless  ;  but  for  the  present  ?  " 

"  He's  doing  very  well,  though  there  have  been 
some  things  to  worry  him  of  late." 

"  Is  he  worth  half  a  million  ? "  persisted  Ken 
nedy. 

Lewis  shook  his  head. 

"  Half  of  that  ?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  177 

Lewis  nodded.  "  Easily,  and  more  too,  if  he 
could  realize  on  all  his  investments.  His  hands 
are  somewhat  tied  just  now.  This  is  between  us, 
Craig,  of  course.  My  own  opinion  is  that  he'd  be 
better  off  to-day  without  the  Plate  Works.  It's 
too  much  for  one  man  to  swing,  at  his  age." 

Kennedy  dangled  one  foot  over  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  reflectively. 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  Craig  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  wondering,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Wondering  what  ?  "  hazarded  Lewis. 

"About  those  house  plans,"  confessed  the 
younger  man.  "I've  finished  them  at  last,  and 
told  the  Doctor  so  the  other  day.  I  asked  him 
when  he  wanted  to  look  them  over,  and  —  I  don't 
know  —  he  seems  some  way  or  other  to  have  lost 
interest  in  them.  He  said  I  might  bring  them  up 
some  evening,  but  he  didn't  speak  as  if  he  cared 
whether  I  did  or  not.  I  have  been  trying  to  hit 
upon  some  explanation.  It  was  his  own  scheme, 
you  remember,  —  to  have  me  design  a  house  for 
that  lot." 

"  Well,"  said  Lewis,  meditatively,  "  I'm  not  in 
the  secret,  if  there  is  any.  What  explanation 
have  you  found  ?  " 

Kennedy  hesitated  an  instant.  He  had  never 
been  quite  frank  with  his  friend  as  to  the  terms 
of  the  Doctor's  commission. 

"  Here's  one,  then.  The  plans  were  to  call  for 
a  hundred  thousand  dollar  house.  I  don't  think 


178  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  Doctor  had  any  very  definite  idea  as  to  when 
he  wanted  to  build  —  indeed,  I  don't  know  that 
he  wanted  to  build  it  himself,  anyway.  He  may 
have  had  just  a  fancy  as  to  the  sort  of  house  that 
might  be  put  up  there  after  he  was  dead  and 
gone  "  —  Craig  was  virtuously  conscious  of  coming 
somewhere  near  the  truth  now,  and  at  the  same 
time  respecting  the  Doctor's  confidence  —  "  and 
yet  it  may  be  that  he  wanted  to  build  next  spring. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Now  it  occurred  to  me 
that  what  with  his  business  troubles  lately — it's 
around  town  that  he  was  caught  badly  in  some 
Western  securities  —  " 

"He  isn't  caught  yet,"  put  in  Dr.  Atwood's 
legal  adviser. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,  of  course.  But 
it  came  over  me  that  he  might  not  have  the 
hundred  thousand  to  spend,  and  perhaps  that 
accounted  for  his  cooling  off." 

"  He  could  raise  that  amount  to-morrow  if  he 
had  to,"  yawned  Lewis,  "  though  I  don't  say  that 
he'd  welcome  the  necessity,  exactly.  You'll  have 
to  find  some  other  explanation,  Craig.  But  I'm 
sorry  if  there's  a  prospect  of  the  drawings  going 
the  way  the  rectory  did  !  It  may  be  that  after 
thoughts  are  the  safest  commission,  after  all, 
eh?" 

Kennedy,  hands  in  his  pockets,  took  a  fidgety 
turn  or  two  around  the  room.  "Hang  it,  Nor 
man,"  he  cried,  "  that  may  not  be  the  only  ex- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  179 

planation  !  I  —  I  wish  it  were.  I  can't  help 
thinking  —  " 

u  Out  with  it,"  said  Lewis,  encouragingly.  The 
architect  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"It's  here,  Norman,"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you 
like  this  talk  all  over  the  town  about  the  Beau- 
lieu  girl  being  up  there  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  admitted  Lewis  ;  "  he  might  have  known 
that  the  Plated  City  wouldn't  keep  its  tongue  off 
that  affair." 

"Hardly!" 

"  But  there's  this  to  be  said,"  put  in  the  elder 
man;  "not  a  breath  of  it  has  probably  reached 
the  girl  herself.  And  James  Atwood  is  not  the 
man  to  stand  back  from  the  right  thing  —  or  the 
chivalrous  thing  —  for  fear  of  gossip.  He  isn't 
happy  unless  some  one  is  blackguarding  him." 

"  The  right  thing  !  "  burst  out  Kennedy.  "  Do 
you  call  it  the  right  thing  to  take  that  girl  to  his 
house,  and  treat  her  as  an  equal  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  the  lawyer,  coolly. 

Kennedy  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  She 
sits  at  the  table  with  him,  man  !  How  would  you 
like  to  drop  in  there  for  supper,  and  have  Tom 
Beaulieu's  sister  pour  your  tea  ?  " 

Lewis  eyed  him  in  amusement.  "  I  should  have 
liked  the  romance  of  it,  at  your  age,  Craig.  And 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  just  what  I  did  Tues 
day  night,  when  you  were  in  New  York.  I  was 
up  there  j  the  Doctor  asked  me  to  stay  to  supper, 


180  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  Tom  Beaulieu's  sister  —  or  half-sister,  to  speak 
accurately  —  poured  the  tea." 

Kennedy  stared  at  him.  "  Do  you  really  mean 
it  ?  "  Lewis  blew  a  ring  of  smoke,  and  nodded. 

"All  I  can  say,  is,  it's  a  cursed  scandal ! " 

The  lawyer  laughed  outright,  wondering  in  his 
own  mind  nevertheless  at  his  companion's  heat. 
Tolerance  was  usually  a  virtue  that  Craig  Ken 
nedy  pushed  if  anything  to  the  extreme. 

"  It  has  its  pleasant  side,  then,  like  most  scan 
dals,  I  suppose.  I  can  assure  you  she  talked 
about  the  weather,  and  the  view  from  the  hill, 
and  the  history  of  Quebec,  and  such  other  topics 
as  my  fertile  imagination  could  suggest,  very 
much  as  any  other  girl  would,  only  as  I  thought 
with  a  vastly  prettier  accent.  And  her  tea  was 
very  good,  too.  Where  was  the  sin  of  it?" 

"  Oh,  it's  easy  enough  to  talk  like  that !  "  retorted 
the  young  fellow.  "  You're  only  trying  to  rub  it 
in,  Norman.  You  know  well  enough  it  isn't 
suitable.  Everything  isn't  all  right  with  the 
Doctor,  or  he  wouldn't  have  dreamed  of  it.  To 
put  the  most  charitable  construction  on  the  whole 
affair,  —  and  that's  more  than  most  people  do,  I 
can  tell  you,  —  it's  simply  crazy  !  " 

"  Look  here,"  drawled  Lewis,  "  who  was  the 
indignant  young  fellow,  a  few  weeks  ago,  that 
was  castigating  the  Plated  City  for  drawing  the 
color  line  on  Miss  Beaulieu?  Why,  you  tried 
to  work  on  my  sympathies  :  you  pictured  her 


THE  PLATED   CITY  181 

sisterly  devotion  to  Tom  ;  you  egged  me  on  to 
get  up  an  affidavit  to  the  effect  that  Tom  —  and 
a  fortiori  his  half-sister — was  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  white ;  in  fact,  it  just  comes  over  me 
that  I  went  so  far  in  my  zeal  as  to  forget  to 
send  you  any  bill  for  composing  that  affidavit 
and  getting  it  sworn  to  !  You  had  my  services 
for  nothing,  by  virtue  of  your  youth  and  enthu 
siasm,  my  boy  !  And  now  you're  backing  water 
in  the  most  curious  way  ;  you're  as  reactionary  as 
any  old  woman.  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Craig's  handsome  face  grew  sulky  during  this 
recital,  "  That  was  before  there  was  any  talk  of 
Dr.  Atwood's  marrying  her,"  he  growled.  "  That 
makes  a  different  thing  out  of  it." 

"I  don't  grant  that,"  said  Kennedy,  deliberately. 
"  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  or  to  me 
whether  Dr.  Atwood  marries  her  or  not  ?  If  you 
hadn't  said  what  you  have,  I  should  infer  that 
you  were  jealous  of  the  old  gentleman.  Why 
shouldn't  he  marry  her  if  it  pleases  him  —  and 
her?  He  can  afford  the  luxury,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  us,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  You're  talking  now  just  for  the  sake  of  listen 
ing  to  your  own  arguments,"  flung  in  Kennedy, 
beginning  to  pace  the  room  again.  "  You're  stat 
ing  the  case  for  the  other  side.  You  know  you 
think  exactly  as  I  do.  It's  a  confounded  shame  ! 
What's  the  use  of  discussing  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  remember  that  I  introduced  the  sub- 


182  THE  PLATED   CITY 

ject,"  replied  Lewis.  "  Let  me  see,  you  had 
started  to  give  a  second  explanation  of  the  Doc 
tor's  lukewarmness  toward  your  building  project, 
had  you  not?  And  then  you  swung  off  on  this." 

"  Well  ?  "  snapped  Kennedy,  as  if  impatient  of 
the  unwonted  slowness  of  his  roommate's  mind. 

"  Oh,  I  see  !  "  cried  Lewis,  raising  his  eyebrows. 
"To  be  sure.  You  didn't  change  the  subject,  after 
all.  It's  Miss  Beaulieu  that  has  caused  the  Doc 
tor  to  neglect  his  promising  young  architect.  It's 
she  you  are  jealous  of,  then,  and  not  the  Doctor  !  " 

Kennedy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  deigned 
no  answer  to  his  friend's  raillery. 

"  Now  •  let  me  think  that  through,"  pursued 
Lewis.  "An  old  bachelor  takes  it  into  his  head 
to  have  some  house  plans  drawn.  Very  well. 
Some  months  afterward  he  likewise  takes  it  into 
his  head  —  if  you  go  to  Main  Street  for  your  in 
formation,  which  I  don't,  by  the  way  —  that  he 
will  marry  his  housekeeper.  We'll  call  that  very 
well,  too,  begging  your  pardon.  Now  I  don't  see 
that  these  two  propositions  nullify  each  other  in 
the  least.  In  fact,  if  it's  true  that  the  Doctor  is 
going  to  marry  Miss  Beaulieu,  why  shouldn't  he 
want  the  house  plans  more  than  ever?  There's 
sound  logic,  and  plenty  of  encouragement  for  you 
into  the  bargain.  Why,  it's  for  your  interest  to 
have  the  banns  cried  at  once." 

The  younger  man  flushed,  and  halted  suddenly 
in  his  stride.  "  No,  it  isn't,  Norman,"  he  said 


THE  PLATED   CITY  183 

quietly.  "  I  can't  very  well  explain,  old  fellow, 
but  I  imagine  this  thing  has  knocked  over  an  air- 
castle  for  me  ;  that's  all." 

Lewis  looked  up,  surprise  and  sympathy  min 
gling  in  his  gaze.  For  himself,  he  had  been  joking 
in  the  main,  and  humorously  enjoying  Craig's  fit 
of  temper.  A  new  idea  flashed  upon  him.  Had 
the  young  fellow's  sulkiness  and  evident  jealousy 
of  Esther  Beaulieu,  and  indeed  the  whole  matter 
of  the  house  plans,  anything  to  do  with  Sally 
Thayer?  There  was  no  other  subject,  certainly, 
about  which  Craig  had  ever  shown  any  reticence. 
"I'm  tremendously  sorry  —  "  he  began  in  an  altered 
tone. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  exclaimed  Kennedy,  pulling  himself 
together,  "I'm  all  right.  I've  had  no  business 
to  say  anything  about  it.  People  get  over  such 
things." 

"  They  thrive  on  them,"  assented  Lewis,  grimly ; 
and  the  two  men  sat  in  silence  for  a  while,  listen 
ing  to  the  rush  of  the  swollen  Mattawanset,  as  it 
swept  beneath  their  windows  in  the  midnight  fog. 

Dr.  James  Atwood  remained  characteristically 
indifferent  to  the  astonishment  and  scandal  which 
his  latest  eccentricity  had  caused  in  the  Plated 
City.  Apparently  he  gave  himself  no  concern  as 
to  any  possible  change  in  Esther  Beaulieu's  social 
status,  resulting  from  her  altered  position.  The 
evening  when  he  had  persuaded  Norman  Lewis 


184  THE  PLATED   CITY 

to  stay  to  supper,  he  had  indeed  observed  with 
secret  pleasure  that  the  lawyer  conversed  with  her 
as  he  would  have  done  with  any  one  else.  Two 
or  three  times,  on  Sunday  morning,  she  accom 
panied  him  at  his  request  to  the  Congregational 
church  upon  the  Green,  where  they  sat  side  by 
side  in  the  old  Atwood  pew,  the  Doctor  arrayed 
in  irreproachable  broadcloth,  and  his  protegee  in 
one  of  those  cheap  but  marvellously  fitting  gowns 
that  had  been  the  despair  of  the  librarian.  It 
was  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  stout-hearted  Doctor 
walk  down  the  centre  aisle,  and  usher  that  tall, 
foreign-looking  girl  into  the  family  pew ;  and 
fully  a  quarter  of  the  congregation  lingered  on 
the  step  after  the  service  was  over,  to  see  him 
hand  Esther  Beaulieu  into  the  carriage.  But  she 
could  not  be  made  to  feel  at  home  in  the  Congre 
gational  church,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  one 
mother  in  Israel,  bolder  than  the  rest,  called  upon 
her,  and  invited  her  to  join  the  Young  Woman's 
Bible  Class.  After  a  little,  Dr.  Atwood  came 
alone,  as  had  been  his  unfailing  custom,  and  Miss 
Beaulieu  was  driven  down  to  St.  Asaph's,  where 
she  slipped  into  her  former  place  in  one  of  the  back 
pews.  The  watchful  eye  of  Whitesyde  Trellys 
observed  her  fidelity,  and  mindful  of  even  the 
most  indirect  opportunity  to  knit  connections  be 
tween  St.  Asaph's  and  the  people  that  lived  on  the 
Hill,  he,  too,  climbed  up  to  the  Atwood  place  and 
made  her  a  call,  selecting  for  this  pastoral  duty, 


THE  PLATED    CITY  185 

however,  an  hour  when  he  was  very  certain  that 
Dr.  Atwood  would  be  engaged  at  the  Plate  Works. 
The  rector  was  now  studying  French  in  his  odd 
moments,  but  he  was  not  yet  prepared  to  meet 
James  Atwood's  eye. 

There  was  exactly  one  other  person,  as  the 
autumn  darkened  into  winter,  who  ventured  to 
call  upon  Esther  Beaulieu.  It  was  Miss  Thayer. 
Urged  partly  by  her  own  curiosity  to  see  how  the 
girl  would  comport  herself  under  the  Doctor's 
roof,  partly  by  a  genuine  interest  dating  from 
Miss  Beaulieu's  first  visit  to  the  Library,  and 
partly  by  her  mother's  opinion  that  the  Christian 
people  of  Bartonvale  ought  to  show  some  charity 
towards  one  whom  Dr.  Atwood's  rash  kindness 
had  placed  in  a  position  of  singular  isolation,  the 
librarian  paid  her  a  visit.  Contrary  to  Sally 
Thayer's  expectation,  it  was  she  herself  who  felt 
embarrassed  at  the  outset :  Miss  Beaulieu  leaned 
back  in  one  of  the  big  haircloth  chairs  in  the 
Atwood  parlor,  and  seemed  very  much  at  ease 
there.  The  conversation  ranged  over  a  variety  of 
topics,  and  grew  femininely  animated  long  before 
the  call  was  over.  Miss  Thayer  was  in  turn  puz 
zled,  fascinated,  and  piqued  at  herself  for  the  air 
of  Christian  condescension  with  which  she  had 
pulled  the  door-bell.  Really,  she  thought,  this 
French  girl  was  an  extraordinary  creature,  with 
her  shy  way  of  dropping  her  long  eyelashes  and 
then  the  very  next  moment  flashing  her  clear  eyes 


186  THE  PLATED   CITY 

fearlessly  at  you  with  lip  and  nostril  that  seemed 
quivering  with  pride  ;  no  wonder  the  dear  old 
Doctor  had  become  her  champion  !  To  be  Quix 
otic  was  delightful.  Would  not  Miss  Beaulieu 
come  to  see  her  ? 

As  Norman  Lewis  had  surmised,  scarcely  a 
breath  of  Bartonvale  gossip  reached  Esther  Beau- 
lieu.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have  greatly  cared, 
if  she  had  known.  Safely  perched  upon  the  crest 
of  the  Hill,  out  of  the  Plated  City's  reach,  she  felt 
an  indifference  as  to  what  might  be  said  of  her 
that  was  quite  equal  to  the  Doctor's.  She  adapted 
herself  to  her  newest  duties  with  an  instinc 
tive  tact.  The  Welsh  girls,  after  one  or  two 
skirmishes,  decided  that  it  was  more  prudent  to 
do  as  they  were  asked,  and  developed  a  docility 
that  was  the  secret  amazement  of  Dr.  Atwood. 
For  the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  he  found  him 
self  daily  looking  forward  to  getting  home,  and 
luxuriating  in  genuine  comfort.  The  sitting- 
room  filled  up  with  flowers,  as  in  his  mother's 
time,  and  in  the  window  twittered  a  canary, 
the  very  image  of  a  certain  Don  Cesar  de  Bazan 
which  had  been  reared  by  Tante  Beaulieu.  The 
furniture  in  the  melancholy-looking  office,  where 
Miss  Beaulieu  read  aloud  the  papers  every  evening, 
was  brightened  until  the  Doctor  recalled  that  it 
was  mahogany  after  all,  and  that  Mrs.  Gascoigne 
had  once  tried  to  buy  it  of  him.  The  inalienable 


THE  PLATED   CITY  187 

stiffness  of  the  New  England  parlor,  indeed,  re 
sisted  every  effort  that  the  girl  made  to  render  it 
less  rigid  and  funereal,  and  she  had  to  content 
herself  with  cleaning  the  frames  .of  the  daguerro- 
types  and  waxen  wreaths  and  ancient  crayons,  and 
with  dusting  the  books  that  were  piled  thick  upon 
the  corner  "  what-nots  "  and  hanging  shelves. 

What  singular  books  there  were  scattered  here 
and  there  over  the  Atwood  house  !  She  had 
plenty  of  time  to  peep  into  them,  as  she  gaily 
dusted  the  tops  and  slapped  the  covers,  and 
as  she  peeped,  her  wonder  grew.  In  the  black 
chintz-covered  bookcase  in  the  hall,  were  the 
works  of  Edwards  and  Emmons  and  Samuel 
Hopkins,  and  endless  other  ancient  Systems  of 
Divinity  ;  with  Histories  of  the  World,  and  a 
Descriptive  Geography  of  Connecticut.  The  Doc 
tor's  unused  medical  library  stood  in  fat,  sickly- 
looking  rows  on  the  high  shelves  in  the  office. 
In  the  sitting-room  and  parlor  were  volumes 
designed  for  family  reading ;  such  as  the  Me 
moirs  of  Edward  Payson  and  Kirke  White,  and  a 
whole  Evangelical  Family  Library  ;  the  poems  of 
Mrs.  Hemans  and  L.  E.  L.  and  John  Milton ;  and 
there  was  an  edition  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  in 
two  volumes,  and  of  Clarissa  Harlowe  in  seven, 
and  the  earlier  numbers  of  The  Boston  Recorder, 
and  The  North  American  Review.  There  were 
boys'  books  there  too  —  or  whatever  thin  piosities 
passed  for  boys'  books  in  the  forties  ;  tarnished 


188  THE  PLATED   CITY 

little  volumes  inscribed  by  the  scrupulous  mother's 
hand  with  the  names  "  James  Atwood,"  "  Everett 
Atwood,"  and  the  birthday  dates.  Curious  enough 
they  all  were  to  the  keen  mind  of  the  girl  who  had 
been  taught  to  read  in  a  volume  of  Diderot,  and 
had  filled  her  childish  imagination  with  the  tales 
of  Dumas  pere  !  Often  she  sat  idle,  in  the  short 
ening  afternoons,  with  one  of  the  old  Atwood 
books  open  upon  her  lap,  dreaming  about  her  own 
childhood,  or  oftener  still  about  Tom.  Letters 
were  coming  regularly  from  him  now.  He  was 
in  high  spirits  again,  and  "  playing  the  game  of 
his  life,"  though  he  wrote  that  if  she  would  look 
at  the  scores  in  the  papers  he  sent,  —  he  always, 
nevertheless,  forgot  to  send  them  —  she  would 
find  that  his  manager  was  playing  him  under  a 
Spanish  name,  to  avoid  any  possible  trouble,  and 
to  advertise  the  team.  The  girl  scarcely  liked 
this  subterfuge,  but  for  that  matter  the  details  of 
Tom's  "  business  "  never  ceased  to  be  a  source  of 
wonder  to  her,  and  she  was  overjoyed  to  know 
that  he  was  well  and  happy  and  that  he  had 
successfully  put  the  past  behind  him.  That  was 
enough,  and  she  dreamed  all  sorts  of  futures  for 
him,  starting  up  sometimes  to  find  that  the  brief 
afternoon  had  vanished  and  to  hear  the  step  of 
James  Atwood  in  the  hall. 

The  Doctor's  dependence  upon  her  seemed  to 
increase  with  every  week.  He  turned  from  his 
business  perplexities  with  a  delight  that  was  quite 


THE  PLATED   CITY  189 

new  to  him,  and  questioned  her  as  to  the  com 
monplace  details  of  housekeeping,  and  wandered 
off  into  reminiscences  of  his  mother,  and  of  his 
own  boyhood,  and  of  the  sleepy  old  Bartonvale 
that  fringed  the  Green  with  its  white  houses  long 
before  it  occurred  to  anybody  that  there  was  water 
power  enough  in  the  Mattawanset  to  turn  the 
village  into  a  city.  It  was  a  relief  to  James  At- 
wood,  in  these  days,  to  let  his  mind  travel  back 
ward,  instead  of  forward,  forward,  as  he  had 
spurred  it  for  five  and  twenty  years.  He  even 
wondered  sometimes,  if  his  business  career  had 
not  been  all  a  mistake,  if  it  might  not  have  been 
better  for  him  to  remain  a  country  doctor,  dis 
tasteful  as  that  life  had  grown  after  his  return 
from  the  war.  Had  it  been  worth  while  to  be  one 
of  the  men  —  indeed,  the  man  above  all  others  — 
who  had  built  up  the  Plated  City  ? 

He  was  in  this  mood  one  Sunday  afternoon  in 
December,  as  Miss  Beaulieu  sat  reading  a  maga 
zine  to  him  by  the  open  fire  in  the  sitting-room. 
She  thought  him  unusually  tired ;  he  had  been 
closeted  with  Norman  Lewis  in  the  office  for  two 
or  three  hours  the  evening  before,  discussing  some 
business  emergency,  and  though  Mr.  Lewis  had 
lingered  a  few  moments  in  the  sitting-room  and 
chatted  politely  to  her  as  she  sat  over  her  week's 
mending,  it  seemed  to  Miss  Beaulieu  that  the 
lawyer,  too,  looked  grave.  She  wondered  if  there 
was  any  new  trouble  at  the  Works.  To-day  Dr. 


190  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Atwood  scarcely  gave  attention  to  the  article  she 
had  so  carefully  selected  to  read  to  him,  and  when 
she  finished  it,  he  walked  over  to  the  bookcase, 
and  peered  hither  and  thither  over  the  shelves. 
He  came  back  with  a  small  book,  bound  in  black 
cloth,  bearing  in  faded  gilt  the  title,  Mammon  by 
Harris. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  have  thought  of  this  book 
for  ten  years,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  gentle  con 
trition  in  his  tone,  "  and  yet  when  mother  gave  it 
to  me  she  hoped  I  would  read  it  every  Sunday.  I 
did,  I  guess,  for  a  while."  He  scanned  the  pale 
ink  upon  the  fly-leaf,  and  shook  his  head.  "  Can 
you  make  that  out  ?  "  he  asked.  "  My  eyes  must 
be  about  gone." 

The  girl  took  the  book  and  read,  "  James  At 
wood,  from  liis  Anxious  Mother,  November,  1865. 
'  He  gave  them  their  request,  but  sent  leanness  into 
their  soul,     Ps.  cvi.  15.' ' 

"  That  must  have  been  the  fall  before  she 
died,"  said  the  Doctor,  slowly.  "Twenty-three 
years  ago  last  month.  She  was  —  let's  see  — 
she  was  almost  sixty  when  she  wrote  that,  and  I 
was  a  man  grown,  but  she  always  would  worry 
about  me.  She  was  afraid  I  might  get  too  fond 
of  money,  and  so  she  wanted  me  to  read  that  book. 
Do  you  see  ?  No  man  ever  had  a  better  mother 
than  I  had.  Suppose  you  read  a  little,"  he  con 
tinued.  "  Strike  in  anywhere.  It's  all  pretty 
much  alike,  if  I  remember." 


THE  PLATED   CITY  191 

Esther  Beaulieu  opened  at  the  section  on  "Dis 
guises  of  Covetousness  "  and  began  at  random,  in 
her  quaint,  pure  intonations. 

"The  propriety  of  an  early  retirement  from 
business  must  depend,  of  course,  on  circumstan 
ces.  But  how  often  does  the  covetousness  which 
wears  this  mask  retain  her  slave  in  her  service 
even  to  hoary  hairs,  putting  him  off  from  time  to 
time  with  delusive  promises  of  approaching  eman 
cipation.  Or  else  he  retires  to  spend,  in  slothful 
and  selfish  privacy,  that  which  he  had  accumu 
lated  by  years  of  parsimony.  Or  else,  by  min 
gling  readily  in  scenes  of  gaiety  and  amusement, 
he  shows  that  his  worldly  aversions  related,  not  to 
the  world  of  pleasure,  but  only  to  the  world  of 
business.  Instead  of  fixing  his  abode  where  his 
pecuniary  resources  and  Christian  activity  might 
have  rendered  him  an  extensive  blessing,  he  con 
sults  only  his  own  gratification,  establishes  him 
self  at  a  distance,  it  may  -be,  from  '  the  place  of 
the  altar '  and,  in  a  regular  round  of  habitual 
indulgence,  lives  and  dies  an  unfaithful  steward, 
a  sober  sensualist,  a  curse  rather  than  a  bless 
ing. 

"  Sometimes  covetousness  is  heard  enlarging 
complacently  on  the  necessity,  and  even  piety,  of 
providing  for  children.  And  here  be  it  remem 
bered— " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  that  hits  my  case," 
broke  in  the  Doctor,  settling  himself  more  com- 


192  THE  PLATED   CITY 

fortably  in  his  chair.  "  Suppose  you  skip  a  little 
and  strike  in  again." 

She  turned  a  few  pages  and  recommenced,  — 

"  Your  station,  property,  or  mental  character 
invest  you,  it  may  be,  with  a  measure  of  author 
ity  and  influence  ;  do  you  ever  employ  that  power 
to  oppress,  and  to  overrule  right  ?  Are  you  what 
the  poor  denominate  hard-hearted  ?  capable  of  driv 
ing  a  hard  bargain?  rigid  and  inexorable  as  an 
Egyptian  taskmaster  in  your  mode  of  conducting 
business  ?  enforcing  every  legal  claim,  pressing 
every  demand,  and  exacting  every  obligation  to 
the  extremest  point  of  justice  ? 

"Are  you  what  is  commonly  denominated  mean? 
cutting  down  the  enjoyments  of  those  dependent 
on  you  to  the  very  quick  ?  never  rewarding  exer 
tion  a  little  beyond  what  is  '  in  the  bond '  ?  doling 
out  requital  for  services  with  so  niggardly  a  hand, 
that  want  alone  would  submit  to  your  bondage  ? 

"  Can  you  go  beyond  and  defraud  another  in 
any  matter  ?  Do  not  hastily  resent  the  question  ; 
for  —  " 

The  reader  looked  up  suddenly,  thinking  that 
Dr.  Atwood  had  spoken.  His  lips  were  indeed 
parted,  but,  far  from  resenting  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Harris's  burning  questions,  he  had  fallen  tran 
quilly  asleep. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  193 


IT  was  three  o'clock  on  a  stinging  midwinter 
morning.  The  moon  was  long  down,  but  the 
clear  starlight  glittered  upon  two  feet  of  crusted 
snow.  Past  the  front  of  the  Mattawanset  Club, 
around  the  long  loop  that  wound  through  the 
snow-bent  shrubbery,  out  upon  Summit  Street  and 
thence  past  the  club  house  again,  circled  the  closed 
sleighs  of  the  Hill  people,  the  fur-caped  coachmen 
slapping  their  arms  and  swearing  softly,  the  sleigh- 
runners  crunching  on  the  hard-packed  snow,  while 
the  close-clipped  horses  tossed  their  heads  wearily, 
and  their  silver-plated  harness  tinkled  in  the  biting 
frost. 

At  the  Mattawanset  Club,  Ladies'  Night  came 
but  once  a  year,  and  each  successive  house  com 
mittee  endeavored  to  outdo  its  predecessor  in  the 
elaborateness  of  the  honors  paid  to  the  annual 
guests.  This  winter  the  Club  had  gone  very  deep 
indeed  into  its  pockets,  and  the  catering,  decorat 
ing,  and  music  had  been  provided  by  a  New  York 
establishment  whose  very  name  wrought  like  a  spell 
upon  the  people  of  the  Hill.  The  Ladies'  Night 
had  proved  more  indubitably  a  success  than  ever. 
Supper  had  been  served  to  the  last  pair  of  strag- 


194  THE  PLATED   CITY 

glers,  the  orchestra  had  unweariedly  attacked  the 
final  section  of  their  programme,  the  elderly  people, 
including  many  a  chaperon,  had  left,  and  the 
members  of  the  house  committee,  drifting  together 
in  a  deserted  corner  of  the  smoking-room,  were 
shaking  hands  in  self-congratulatory  enthusiasm. 
Downstairs,  in  a  palm-embowered  recess  of  the 
billiard  room,  which  had  been  cleared  for  dancing, 
sat  a  brown-bearded  man,  watching  with  a  kind 
of  dreamy  curiosity  the  extravagant  performances 
of  eight  of  the  younger  set  who  were  dancing 
the  Lancers.  At  his  side  was  Sally  Thayer,  still 
breathing  deep  from  her  last  waltz,  and  gowned  in 
a  brocaded  silk  that  had  cost  her  a  whole  month's 
salary.  She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  are  thinking  of, 
Mr.  Lewis.  It's  sure  to  be  something,  —  oh,  some 
thing  that  nobody  else  would  think  of  !  " 

He  laughed.  "  That's  doubtful  flattery  !  Well, 
to  be  honest,  I  was  thinking  that  towards  morn 
ing  the  Plated  City's  plating  sometimes  wears  a 
trifle  thin." 

She  swept  her  eyes  over  the  improvised  ball 
room,  from  the  rompers  upon  the  floor  to  the 
bediamonded  chaperons  in  various  unattractive 
stages  of  fatness  and  leanness,  yawning  behind 
their  fans.  She  knew  every  person  in  the  room  : 
not  a  single  ludicrous  pretence,  nor  covert  ambi 
tion,  nor  clever  feminine  expedient  escaped  her. 

"  That  is  delicious,"  she  murmured.     "  We  do 


THE  PLATED   CITY  195 

need  '  dipping '  every  few  hours,  don't  we,  if  we 
mean  to  impose  upon  each  other  !  —  But  don't  you 
think  it  would  be  a  waste  of  silver  ?  You,  for 
instance,  would  be  forever  scratching  through  the 
plating,  just  the  same." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  not  forever  scratching,"  put  in 
Lewis,  in  self-defence. 

"  You  do  something  much  worse,  then,"  she 
laughed.  "  You  wait  very  innocently  until  some 
splendid,  shiny  moment  comes,  and  then  you 
scratch  hard.  Here  was  I,  a  minute  ago,  sitting 
so  comfortably,  admiring  the  skirt  of  my  new 
gown.  And  you  remind  me  that  I  haven't  paid 
the  dressmaker,  and  that  there's  a  spot  on  the 
front  breadth  already." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Thayer,"  he  protested, ."  I  didn't 
even  look  at  your  gown." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  sir  !  You  should 
have.  Isn't  it  pretty  ?  Come  !  But  you've 
brought  me  back  to  sordid  realities.  You've 
managed  to  remind  me  that  there  isn't  a  woman 
on  the  sofas  there  who  hasn't  guessed  who  made 
it,  and  how  much  it  cost  me,  and  that  it's  destined 
to  last  me  two  years,  spots  or  none.  That's  the 
real  Hill  metal  :  they  care  for  the  price  of  things ; 
our  mutual  airs  and  graces  are  just  the  plating,  as 
you  say." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  your  claws  are  getting 
sharper  than  mine,"  said  Lewis. 

"No,"  she  retorted,  "because  you  see  I  think 


196  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  real  Hill  metal  is  a  good  thing,  when  you 
scrape  down  to  it,  and  I  don't  believe  you  do. 
You  rail  against  it ;  you  make  fun  of  us,  plated  or 
unplated,  —  you  needn't  deny  it  !  Whereas  I 
laugh  with  you  at  the  plating,  but  am  thrifty 
enough  at  bottom  to  admire  the  business  sense  of 
these  people,  —  their  faculty  of  getting  on,  —  get 
ting  up  the  Hill." 

"  And  I'm  not  thrifty  enough  to  admire  it  ?  "  he 
inquired  drily. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  said  hurriedly,  re 
membering  things  Craig  Kennedy  had  dropped 
as  to  Lewis's  poverty.  "I  simply  mean  that  I 
like  the  Hill  people  — of  whom,  by  courtesy  and 
by  childhood  association,  you  will  please  to  observe, 
I  am  one  —  when  they  are  talking  naturally,  when 
they  are  just  themselves.  Did  you  notice  where 
Craig  and  I  sat  when  supper  was  served  ?  Well, 
what  do  you  think  those  two  women  who  were 
behind  us  were  talking  about?  You  saw  the 
diamonds,  didn't  you,  and  their  Paris  gOAvns  ?  — 
They  were  discussing  the  price  of  butter  and 
the  best  way  to  make  lemon  ice  ;  just  like  any 
two  confidential  farmers'  wives  up  and  down  the 
Valley.  And  why  shouldn't  they  ?  They  were 
both  farmers'  girls,  who  simply  happened  to  marry 
men  who  went  into  manufacturing  instead  of 
farming.  Consequently  I  like  to  hear  them  talk 
about  butter  and  lemon  ice.  It's  when  they  talk 
about  Germans  and  '  coming  out '  parties,  yes, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  197 

and  books  and  travel,  that  I  make  fun  of  them. 
Then  I  rebel  ;  but  do  you  know,  I  fancy  you 
rebel  all  the  time." 

It  was  a  keen  thrust,  delivered  quite  uncon 
sciously.  Lewis  reflected  a  moment.  "Very 
possibly,"  he  said.  "  At  any  rate,  yours  is  the 
more  healthy  point  of  view.  But  you  will  admit 
that  the  spectacle  of  the  Hill  set  in  gala  dress 
confuses  one  a  little.  I  don't  get  used  to  it. 
Things  seem  to  be  very  much  mixed  socially, 
the  moment  you  get  beyond  the  Green  and  into 
High  Street." 

"  Mixed  ?  It's  dreadful,  but  it's  delightful  too. 
That  is  — "  she  dropped  her  voice  and  smiled  at 
him  confidentially  —  "  if  you  are  snugly  established 
upon  a  corner  of  the  Green,  and  haven't  money 
enough  to  move  up  the  Hill,  even  if  you  wished. 
It's  a  fine  spectacle  and  great  fun.  There's  posi 
tively  no  one  to  draw  the  lines,  now  that  Mrs.  Gas- 
coigne  is  away;  and  we're  fearfully  in  need  of 
sorting  !  " 

"  And  Mrs.  Gascoigne  herself  ?  "  suggested 
Lewis,  satirically. 

"  Exactly ;  a  shoemaker's  daughter,  I  know, 
and  married  a  machinist  at  first,  and  a  Gascoigne 
afterwards.  But  that  doesn't  make  any  differ 
ence  now.  She  was  born  with  a  genius  for 
settling  difficult  points,  and  the  Hill  needs  her. 
When  is  she  coming  back  ?  Didn't  you  tell  her 
where  to  go?  " 


198  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Lewis  nodded. 

"  That  seems  so  queer  to  me,"  said  Miss  Thayer. 
"  You  don't  go  abroad  yourself,  and  yet  you  plan 
such  delightful  trips  for  other  people.  Craig  told 
me  that  she  spent  two  hours  up  in  your  rooms, 
and  that  she  gave  him  that  order  for  a  bay-window 
by  way  of  showing  her  gratitude  to  you." 

"  Well,  there  was  nothing  she  could  do  for  me," 
replied  Lewis,  lightly.  "  I  suppose  she  will  sort 
me  periodically,  for  which  I  should  be  duly  grate 
ful.  But  it  was  Craig,  as  usual,  who  had  all  the 
tangible  luck." 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Craig,"  said  Miss 
Thayer,  slowly,  smoothing  out  some  folds  in  her 
skirt  with  her  closed  fan.  "  You  know  him 
thoroughly.  Of  course  you  are  his  best  friend." 

"  Hush  !  "  interrupted  Lewis.  The  waltzing 
had  recommenced,  and  at  that  instant  Craig  glided 
past  the  recess,  with  one  of  the  winter's  debu 
tantes,  and  nodded  gaily  over  her  beribboned 
shoulder  at  the  pair  seated  among  the  palms.  He 
looked  singularly  handsome,  and  the  girl  was  the 
best  dancer  in  the  room. 

"You  were  saying  —  ?"  Lewis  remarked. 

Her  eyes  followed  Craig  and  his  partner. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  I  want  to  ask  if  you 
think  Craig's  luck — hurts  him.  Do  you  see  what 
I  mean  ?  " 

"  For  instance  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  that  bay-window  for  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  for 


THE  PLATED   CITY  199 

instance.  He  seems  to  come  by  such  things  so 
easily;  they  seem  to  tumble  into  his  lap." 

"  They  don't  tumble  in  so  very  often,"  said 
Craig's  roommate,  loyally. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  everything  he  gets,  he  gets 
in  that  way,  doesn't  he?  It  has  always  been  so. 
Whatever  Craig  wants  he  has  for  the  asking. 
People  don't  like  to  refuse  him.  And  I've  been 
wondering  —  that  is,  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
—  if  it  wouldn't  be  better  for  him  if  people  did 
refuse  him  things,  —  if  he  had  to  work  harder,  I 
mean.  Do  you  suppose  it  would  be  good  for  him 
if  he  had  to  worry  more,  or  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Speaking  as  his  roommate,  I  shouldn't  wish 
his  temperament  changed  in  the  least.  I  am  ugly 
enough  for  two,  as  it  is."  He  was  inwardly  de 
bating  her  question. 

"  Of  course,"  she  admitted,  "  people  blessed  with 
good  spirits  are  more  cheerful  bodies  to  have 
around,  though  mother  does  say  my  spirits  are  so 
high  that  they  frighten  her.  But  that  wasn't  quite 
the  point  at  issue." 

"  You  mean,  then,"  he  said,  judicially,  nursing 
one  knee  between  his  locked  hands,  "  that  if  Craig 
didn't  light  on  his  feet  so  invariably,  it  might  be 
better  for  Craig  ?  " 

"Exactly." 

"  That's  a  hard  question,"  was  his  grave  re 
sponse.  "  Do  you  remember  what  the  priest  says 
in  John  Inglesant  about  being  '  led  by  happiness '  ? 


200  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Sometimes  I  think  Craig  is  being  led  like  that. 
And  at  other  times  "  —  Lewis's  voice  changed  to 
an  abrupt  fierceness  —  "I  swear  I  think  the  Plated 
City  will  ruin  the  fellow  yet.  This  eternal  tinker 
ing  with  the  Hill  places  will  be  the  death  of  him 
professionally.  It  will  knock  the  capacity  for 
hard  work  out  of  him  in  time.  Suppose  he  does 
get  a  fancy  price  now  and  then,  for  designing  a 
new  staircase,  or  sticking  on  an  outside  chimney, 
or  putting  a  cupola  on  a  barn.  Suppose  he  has 
that  accursed  knack  of  wheedling  old  women  into 
putting  in  stained  glass  where  they  don't  want  it. 
I  tell  you  I'd  rather  see  him  working  at  a  brick 
tenement  down  on  the  Flats."  He  checked  him 
self  with  a  characteristic  smile  at  his  own  earnest 
ness. 

"  Don't  stop,"  she  said.  "  You  don't  know  how 
I  like  to  hear  you  say  these  things." 

"  No,  I've  had  my  discontented  fling,  and  that's 
enough.  You  may  ask  Craig  sometime  to  pull 
me  to  pieces  in  return.  I  am  a  very  old  friend  of 
his,  you  know." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  she  said.  "  I  want  all  to  go 
well  with  him." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  apparently 
gazing  across  the  room  at  the  orchestra.  Then 
Miss  Thayer  returned  to  her  cross-examination. 

"  But  surely  he  can  do  good  work.  Mr.  Trel- 
lys  showed  me  once  the  church  plans  that  Craig 
had  drawn.  I  thought  they  were  ever  so  good. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  201 

And  he  had  some  important  work  to  do  for  Dr. 
Atwood  in  the  fall.  He  was  going  to  show  it  to 
me,  he  said,  but  he  never  did,  and  lately  he  has 
said  nothing  about  it." 

"  Can  they  possibly  be  quarrelling  ?  "  thought 
Lewis,  remembering  his  former  suspicion  that  the 
Doctor's  commission  might  have  something  to  do 
with  Sally  Thayer.  "  Is  that  why  she  is  analyzing 
him?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  indifferently;  "there  was 
something  of  the  sort  on  hand,  I  believe,  but  I  got 
the  impression  that  the  Doctor  may  have  changed 
his  mind.  I  remember  that  Craig  was  disap 
pointed." 

"But  on  your  theory,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  toe  of  her  satin  slipper,  "  disappoint 
ment  would  be  a  good  thing  for  him." 

"  It  was  your  theory,"  said  Lewis.  "  I  only 
elaborated  it  a  little.  And  I  think  I  didn't  use 
the  word  '  disappointment.' ' 

"But  that  was  what  you  meant?  Yes,  that  he 
needed  disappointment,  or  responsibility,  or  —  " 

The  music  ceased  suddenly,  and  Kennedy 
brushed  past  them,  laughing  at  some  remark  of 
the  excited  debutante,  whom  he  was  conducting 
back  to  her  mother. 

"  Or  whatever  else  it  might  be  that  would  turn 
him  into  a  disgruntled  old  fellow  like  myself? 
That's  what  we  usually  mean  when  we  find  fault 
with  other  people's  experiences ;  we  mean  that 


202  THE  PLATED   CITY 

they  simply  have  not  the  advantages  we  have  per 
sonally  enjoyed." 

The  light  bitterness  of  his  tone  puzzled  her  ; 
then  things  that  Craig  had  told  her  about  Lewis's 
support  of  his  father  came  into  her  mind. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  went  on  ironically,  as  if  speak 
ing  to  himself.  "  The  boy  is  better  off  as  he  is. 
Let  him  grow  old  when  he  has  to,  and  not  before. 
Just  look  at  him  !  " 

Kennedy  was  crossing  the  room  straight  toward 
them,  his  hair  disarranged,  his  collar  wilted  and 
white  tie  straggling,  but  his  step  was  unwearied 
as  an  athlete's,  and  his  eyes  were  sparkling  with 
pure  animal  spirits. 

"  I  understand  now ;  I  think  I  never  did  be 
fore,"  she  whispered  hurriedly.  Lewis's  affection 
ate  word  "boy"  had  interpreted  to  her  that  of 
which  she  herself  had  been  but  vaguely  conscious. 
Norman  Lewis,  grave,  ironical,  gentle,  with  a 
mental  and  emotional  life  of  which  she  had  never 
had  more  than  glimpses,  was  a  man.  Craig  was 
nothing  but  a  boy.  Yet  he  was  a  dear  boy,  never 
theless. 

"  Is  this  your  dance,  Craig  ? "  she  said  ;  and 
they  were  gone. 

Norman  Lewis  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  started 
leisurely  toward  the  coat-room,  but  at  the  door 
he  paused,  and  stood  looking  at  Craig  and  Miss 
Thayer.  She  was  dancing  even  more  perfectly, 
he  thought,  than  the  debutante, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  203 

"  Is  their  engagement  announced  ?  "  said  a  low, 
husky  voice  behind  him.  Lewis  turned.  White- 
syde  Trellys  was  leaning  there,  too,  his  pale  eyes 
fixed  upon  that  couple,  his  clerical  garb  heighten 
ing  the  pathetic,  mystical  expression  of  his  face. 

"  I  have  not  heard  of  it,"  replied  Lewis,  stiffly, 
and  then  he  felt  a  sudden  pity  for  the  man  at  his 
side.  "  I  don't  know  that  they  are  engaged,"  he 
added  with  a  smile.  "  Do  people  say  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  understand  that  she  has  been  receiving 
congratulations  to-night.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't 
have  spoken,  you  know." 

Lewis  shook  his  head.  "  It's  the  first  I've  heard 
of  it.  And  I've  been  talking  to  Miss  Thayer  for 
the  last  half -hour."  It  flashed  on  him,  neverthe 
less,  that  Miss  Thayer's  questions  about  Craig 
might  have  had  a  deeper  purport  than  he  had 
suspected.  Had  the  young  people  been  deliber 
ately  mystifying  him?  He  grew  a  trifle  red  at 
the  thought  of  it. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  then,"  said  the  rector  of  St. 
Asaph's,  with  a  weak  laugh.  "I  supposed  you 
would  know.  I  did  not  wish  to  be  among  the 
last  to  congratulate  her,  if  it  were  true  ;  we  were 
old  tennis  partners,  you  may  remember." 

"Yes,"  said  Lewis,  "I  remember." 

They  separated  to  let  some  one  pass,  and  then, 
by  some  new  instinct  of  companionship,  found 
themselves  once  more  side  by  side. 

"  She  might  do  much  worse,"  hazarded  Trellys. 


204  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Just  run  your  eye  over  those  ten  —  no,  eleven  — 
men  upon  the  floor." 

Lewis  surveyed  them  in  the  character  of  puta 
tive  claimants  for  Sally  Thayer's  hand.  A  couple 
of  them,  sons  of  Plated  City  magnates,  were,  as 
every  man  and  woman  in  the  room  well  knew, 
thoroughly  disreputable ;  three  or  four  others 
were  silent,  successful  young  fellows  who  kept 
whatever  sins  or  virtues  they  might  have  had 
well  out  of  the  reach  of  Main  Street  gossip  ; 
the  rest  were  indubitably  men  whom  a  good 
woman  might  marry  and  make  over  again,  sigh 
ing  perhaps  occasionally  in  the  making. 

"  She  might  do  very  much  worse  indeed,"  said 
he,  half  to  himself.  "  Trellys,"  he  demanded 
abruptly,  "what  is  the  matter  with  the  Plated 
City  ?  You  must  think  about  such  things  more 
than  most  of  us  do  ;  what  ails  those  fellows  upon 
the  floor?" 

"  Aimlessness,"  pronounced  the  rector,  in  his 
fatigued,  positive  voice.  "They  have  no  intel 
lectual  interests.  Did  you  know  that  the  work 
ing  people  down  on  the  Flats  read  more  books 
than  the  people  here  on  the  Hill  ?  They  do  ;  I 
have  taken  great  pains  to  inform  myself  as  to  the 
facts.  Why,  Mr.  Lewis,  I  believe  the  intellectual 
life  of  this  place  is  growing  more  slender  every 
year.  The  pretensions  to  culture  are  fearfully 
superficial  !  And  boys  grow  up  here  with  the 
idea  that  New  York  sets  the  standard  for  every- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  205 

thing.  If  Bartonvale  were  further  from  New 
York,  I  should  be  thankful.  These  young  fel 
lows  aim  to  dress  and  talk  and  act  like  New 
Yorkers  —  it  is  the  only  aim  most  of  them  have. 
And  do  their  best,  it's  all  an  imitation." 

"  Silver  plate,"  suggested  Lewis. 

"Precisely.  It  isn't  the  real  thing.  That's 
why  I  like  to  get  back  to  my  working-girls'  clubs, 
and  all  that,  on  the  Flats.  There  you  have  the 
genuine  article,  such  as  it  is." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Lewis.  "And  yet  I  meet 
you  on  the  Hill  very  often,  Trellys." 

The  rector's  eyes  brightened  with  a  mystical 
enthusiasm.  "The  Church  has  a  message  for  the 
Hill,  too,"  he  said  simply. 

"  You  think  the  Mattawanset  Club  has  a  soul, 
then,  if  you  could  get  at  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  said  the  rector. 

"I  presume  so,"  laughed  Lewis,  a  trifle  reck 
lessly.  "You  see  I  belong  to  the  Club  myself. 
But  I  think  it  would  be  like  finding  the  heart  of 
an  onion  ;  you  would  have  to  peel  and  peel,  before 
you  found  it." 

"  No,"  said  Whitesyde  Trellys.  "  It  is  nearer 
the  surface  than  that.  There  are  splendid 
qualities  hidden  away  beneath  the  plating. 
They  may  be  revealed  at  any  hour.  If  I  did 
not  believe  that,  I  should  never  come  near  the 
Hill  again." 

"  Between  you  and  Miss  Thayer,"  said  Lewis, 


206  THE  PLATED   CITY 

after  a  pause,  "  the  Plated  City  has  been  well 
championed  to-night.  She  was  vouching  for  the 
women,  and  now  you  assert  your  underlying  faith 
in  the  men.  It  leaves  me  posing  as  the  sceptic." 

"  She  does  believe  in  the  Hill  women,  does  she 
not,  for  all  her  raillery  !  "  exclaimed  Trellys, 
eagerly.  "  She  will  be  a  noble  woman  herself. 
See,  they  are  coming  this  way,  aren't  they  ?  no, 
she  is  going  to  the  dressing-room  ;  they  must 
be  leaving  now."  Then  he  hesitated  an  instant, 
and  the  yearning,  pathetic  look  came  into  his  face 
again.  "  Mr.  Lewis,"  he  asked,  "  why  aren't  you 
more  of  an  idealist  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  replied  Norman  Lewis,  "  I'm 
too  much  of  one  already,"  and  nodding  good  night 
to  the  puzzled  rector  of  St.  Asaph's,  he  made  his 
way  to  the  coat-room. 

Craig  was  standing  by  the  rail,  fumbling  cheer 
fully  in  his  pockets  for  his  ulster  check.  Lewis 
drew  him  aside.  "  Craig,"  he  whispered,  "  some 
one  has  started  the  report  that  you  and  Miss 
Thayer  are  engaged.  People  have  been  congrat 
ulating  her  to-night.  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know." 

Kennedy  stared  at  him  with  a  curious,  half- 
boyish,  half -troubled  expression  in  his  blue  eyes. 
"Thank  you,  old  man,"  he  said,  "thank  you." 
And  he  tossed  down  a  quarter  to  the  boy  who 
had  handed  him  his  ulster,  and  swung  out  of  the 
room.  Sally  Thayer,  enveloped  in  wraps,  was 


THE  PLATED   CITY  207 

already  waiting  for  him,  but  there  was  a  moment's 
delay  with  the  horses,  and  Lewis  reached  the  front 
step  in  time  to  close  the  carriage  door.  It  was 
just  four  o'clock. 

"  Take  you  down  if  you  like,  Mr.  Lewis,"  called 
out  the  driver  of  the  carriage  next  in  line. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  was  the  answer.  "  I'd 
rather  walk."  And  he  trudged  off  down  the 
hill,  in  the  frosty  starlight. 

Waking  late,  and  dressing  silently,  so  as  to 
avoid  disturbing  Kennedy,  Norman  Lewis  was 
quietly  passing  out  of  their  joint  study  that  morn 
ing,  when  the  sound  of  a  mighty  splashing  in 
Kennedy's  tub  arrested  him,  as  his  hand  was  upon 
the  outer  door. 

"All  right,  Craig?"  he  called  out.  "Want 
some  breakfast  saved  for  you  ?  " 

"What's  that?"  shouted  Kennedy.  "Break 
fast  ?  Well,  I  should  think  so  !  Say,  hold  on, 
Lewis.  Come  here  !  "  The  door  of  his  room 
opened  sufficiently  to  allow  the  exhibition  of  his 
dripping  head  and  shoulders,  and  one  waving 
arm. 

"Shake,  old  man,"  he  cried,  tossing  the  cold 
water  out  of  his  merry  eyes,  and  gripping  Lewis's 
hand  with  his  wet  fingers.  "  We're  engaged  !  " 

"  Since  when,  if  I  may  ask  ? "  said  Norman 
Lewis. 

"  A  quarter  past    four,  or  thereabouts.  —  You 


208  THE  PLATED   CITY 

see  we  thought  that  we  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a 
sheep  as  a  lamb  !  "  he  added,  rather  incoherently. 
"Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  —  you  know —  " 

Lewis  wrung  his  hand.  "  I  congratulate  you 
with  all  my  heart,  my  boy." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  Well,  it's  great !  It's 
the  greatest  thing  on  earth !  —  Tell  'em  to  save 
some  breakfast."  The  door  was  slammed  again, 
and  the  splashing  recommenced  with  renewed 
vigor. 

The  news  of  the  engagement  was  received  with 
enthusiastic  approval  along  High  and  Summit 
Streets.  Both  Craig  and  Sally  were  popular  in 
these  more  exalted  Bartonvale  circles,  and  as 
everybody  knew  that  they  had  been  friends  since 
babyhood,  there  was  the  usual  amount  of  wonder 
at  the  fact  that  they  had  not  become  engaged  long 
before.  Toward  two  people  only  did  Craig  feel 
conscious  of  emotions  different  from  the  buoyant 
self-satisfaction  with  which  he  received  the  con 
gratulations  of  the  majority  of  his  friends.  One  of 
the  persons  whose  approval  Craig  had  every  reason 
in  the  world  to  desire  was,  most  naturally,  the 
mother  of  his  fiancee.  He  entered  the  quiet,  gera 
nium-scented  room  to  beg  her  blessing  with  some 
thing  of  the  shamefacedness  he  had  been  wont  to 
experience  as  a  boy  whenever  she  had  dismissed 
him  from  the  yard  in  disgrace  for  trying  to  teach 
Sally  to  climb  the  plum  tree.  But  she  was  very 


THE  PLATED    CITY  209 

lovely  to  him.  Her  daughter  had  prepared  her 
for  the  interview,  indeed,  and  had  coached  Craig  a 
little  as  to  the  nature  of  his  remarks,  so  that  the 
young  fellow's  path  was  made  smooth  for  him. 
And  not  every  gay-hearted,  red-blooded  youth  of 
five  and  twenty  could  find  it  easy  to  enter  the 
sacred  peacefulness  of  that  invalid's  home  and  ask 
if  he  might  not  himself  share  it  in  the  future,  — • 
for  any  separation  of  mother  and  daughter  was  of 
course  quite  impossible.  But  Mrs.  Thayer,  with 
her  yearning,  sick-bed  eyes,  looked  Kennedy  long 
in  the  face,  and  knew  she  could  trust  him.  She 
said  so,  in  touching,  almost  affectionate  words,  and 
he  went  out,  all  unwitting  of  the  struggle  she  had 
gone  through  before  surrendering  the  hope  that 
Sally  might,  after  all,  fall  in  love  with  a  minister. 
It  was  with  some  misgivings,  likewise,  that 
Kennedy  climbed  the  Hill  to  the  Atwood  place  to 
tell  his  engagement  to  the  Doctor.  For  two  or 
three  months  he  had  jealously  avoided  him,  under 
the  suspicion,  which  he  had  betrayed  to  Lewis,  that 
the  Doctor's  cooling  zeal  for  the  house  plans  was 
traceable  to  his  new  interest  in  Esther  Beaulieu. 
He  found  this  person,  on  his  arrival,  familiarly 
ensconced  before  the  sitting-room  fire,  reading 
aloud  to  the  Doctor,  who  lay  stretched  upon  the 
old  haircloth  sofa.  The  Welsh  housemaid  had 
asked  him  into  the  sitting-room  without  any  cere 
mony,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment. 
Miss  Beaulieu,  rising,  glanced  at  him  in  some  un- 


210  THE  PLATED   CITY 

certainty.  It  occurred  to  Craig  that  if  he  had 
not  been  just  engaged  to  Sally  Thayer,  he  would 
allow  himself  to  think  that  the  Doctor's  protegee 
was  marked  by  an  extraordinary  beauty.  Dr. 
At  wood,  sitting  up  slowly,  and  blinking  benevo 
lently  in  the  strong  light,  —  for  he  had  in  truth 
been  napping,  —  recognized  at  length  the  architect. 

"Oh,  hullo,  Craig,  it's  you,  is  it!  Well,  well! 
Glad  to  see  you.  Take  a  chair.  Er  —  Miss 
Beaulieu,  this  is  Mr.  Kennedy." 

Mr.  Kennedy  bowed  elaborately.  Miss  Beau- 
lieu  seemed  to  hesitate  about  resuming  her  seat. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,  Doctor," 
said  Craig.  Miss  Beaulieu  promptly  retreated 
from  the  room. 

"A  —  ha  ?  "  yawned  the  Doctor,  encouragingly. 

"  Yes.  The  fact  is,  you  see,  Sally  Thayer  and 
I  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

Dr.  Atwood  pulled  his  spectacles  down  from 
his  forehead  and  settled  them  in  place.  His  eyes 
seemed  singularly  bright,  withal,  and  his  erect 
tufts  of  white  hair  gave  him  a  curiously  alert 
expression. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  he  remarked  deliberately. 
"  You  and  Sally  are  engaged  !  I  didn't  know 
but  she  would  take  up  with  that  Episcopalian 
fellow,  after  all.  She's  a  nice  little  girl,  a  nice 
little  girl.  You've  been  a  good  while  getting 
round  to  it,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  All  of  our  lives,  I  think  ;  "  at  which  beatific 


THE  PLATED   CITY  211 

sentiment  the  Doctor  sniffed  somewhat  incredu 
lously. 

Kennedy  sat  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  wait 
ing  for  the  Doctor  to  proceed. 

"  I  wish  you  happiness,  Kennedy,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  after  a  pause.  "  And  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  fail  to  have  it,  though  you're  going  into 
something  that  I  haven't  known  anything  about 
myself.  —  It's  this  winter  for  the  first  time  in 
twenty-five  years,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  could 
say  I  had  the  comfort  of  a  home.  I  ought  to  have 
had  it  long  before." 

These  words  rang  ominous  in  Craig's  ear.  They 
seemed  a  confirmation  of  his  suspicions  as  to  what 
the  Doctor  was  going  to  do  next. 

"  I  suppose,  Dr.  Atwood,"  he  remarked,  think 
ing  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  the  matter  over 
with  at  once,  "  that  you  don't  care  to  have  me 
keep  those  house  plans  any  longer  ?  " 

The  Doctor  peered  narrowly  at  him. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  you  might  have  changed  your 
mind." 

"Why  should  I  change  my  mind?  Don't  I 
think  as  much  of  Sally  Thayer  as  I  ever  did?  I 
don't  say  a  man  hasn't  a  right  to  change  his  mind, 
but  why  should  I  change  mine  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Kennedy,  weakly. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  asserted  James  Atwood. 
"  You've  heard  some  of  this  fool  talk  down  town 


212  THE  PLATED   CITY 

about  the  old  Doctor  and  —  "  He  nodded  signifi 
cantly  toward  the  door  through  which  Miss 
Beaulieu  had  taken  her  departure. 

Kennedy  was  silent. 

"  I  knew  you  had.  Now  I  want  to  say  this, 
Craig.  When  you're  fifty-eight  years  old,  and 
going  on  fifty-nine,  I  hope  you'll  learn  to  go  ahead 
and  do  what  you  want  to  do,  and  let  folks  talk 
their  tongues  right  down  to  the  socket !  This 
town  has  talked  me  over  ever  since  I  came  back 
from  the  war  and  quit  practising.  Much  good 
has  it  done  'em  !  They've  had  the  fun  of  it  all 
these  years,  and  I  never  have  cared  the  flip  of  a 
lamb's  tail  —  and  I  never  will  care  —  what  people 
say  about  James  Atwood  on  Main  Street.  I  know 
well  enough  what  they're  saying  now.  They  can't 
get  over  this  Beaulieu  girl's  being  here,  and  they're 
saying  that  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  Do 
you  suppose  that  does  me  any  harm  ?  Why,  I  take 
more  solid  comfort  in  fifteen  minutes  lying  here  on 
this  sofa  with  my  eyes  shut,  listening  to  that  girl 
reading,  than  their  talk  would  hurt  me  in  fifteen 
years  !  No,  sir  !  '  Tliere's  only  one  way  of  getting 
through  this  world  with  any  satisfaction,  Craig, 
and  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  it  is.  Perhaps 
you'll  remember  it  when  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
You  want  to  make  up  your  own  mind  what  is 
the  right  thing  to  do,  and  then  go  right  along. 
That's  it.  You  want  to  learn  to  go  right  along. 
Then,  if  you've  got  money  enough  to  pay  your 


THE  PLATED   CITY  213 

debts,  you  can  tell  everybody  on  this  broad  earth 
to  go  to  the  devil."  "  f~7~ 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Kennedy,  laughing  in  spite 
of  himself;  "I'll  bear  that  in  mind." 

"  Now  let  me  see,  what  were  we  talking  about  ?  " 
inquired  Dr.  Atwood. 

"  The  plans  for  a  stone  house." 

"  To  be  sure.  Well,  you  drew  some  good  plans, 
Craig,  very  neat  —  very  neat.  What  does  Sally 
think  of  them  ?  " 

"  Sally  hasn't  seen  them.  I  haven't  said  any 
thing  about  them,  —  beyond  the  fact  that  I  had 
been  doing  some  work  for  you  which  I  might 
sometime  show  her.  " 

"  Well,  why  haven't  you  shown  them  to  her  ?  " 

Craig  hesitated,  and  then  broke  into  a  frank, 
boyish  smile.  "  I'll  tell  you,  Doctor.  Now  that 
we're  engaged,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference. 
When  you  first  proposed  the  thing,  last  summer, 
I  didn't  think  I  ought  to  say  anything  to  Sally, 
because  —  well,  because  it  wouldn't  have  seemed 
quite  fair  to  another  man.  If  I  had  given  her 
your  message,  it  would  have  looked  like  putting 
a  premium  on  myself,  wouldn't  it?  And  after 
wards,  when  I  found  that  the  other  man  didn't 
have  much  of  a  chance,  anyway  —  or  perhaps  it 
was  before  that,  —  I  don't  exactly  remember,  —  I 
looked  at  the  matter  rather  differently,  and  had 
half  a  mind  to  tell  her,  after  all.  But  then  came 
up  this  other  thing,  — I  mean  Miss  Beaulieu's  com- 


214  THE  PLATED   CITY 

ing   here,  —  and   you   seemed   not  to  take   much 
interest  in  the  plans  any  more,  and  —  I  don't  know 

—  in   short,   I  didn't   know   but   you   had   other 
things  in  mind.  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Dr.  Atwood.  "  You  pick  up  your 
news  about  me  on  Main  Street,  Craig.  Better 
not,  better  not.  Well,  go  on." 

"  Why,  that's  all,  except  that  since  we've  been 
engaged  I  haven't  said  anything  about  it  because 

—  well,  we've  been  engaged  only  a  day  or  two, 
and  there  have  been  so  many  other  things  to  talk 
over.     And  I  don't  want  Sally  to  think,  and  I'm 
sure  Sally  and  I  wouldn't  want  anybody  to  think  " 

—  the  Doctor  liked  the  pride  that  came  into  the 
young  fellow's  face  —  "  that  our  happiness  is  de 
pendent  upon  the  sort  of  house  we  are  to  live  in." 

"  Good  enough !  Now  I'm  going  to  be  equally 
frank  with  you.  I  have  had  other  things  on  my 
mind,  Craig,  ever  since  last  fall ;  a  good  many  of 
them,  but  Miss  Beaulieu  isn't  one.  The  only 
plan  I  have  for  her,  as  far  as  I  know  now,  is  to 
give  her  a  good  home  as  long  as  she  wants  it. 
But  I've  had  things  to  worry  me,  Craig,  ever  since 
the  election.  I  don't  know  how  we're  coming  out 
down  at  the  Works  ;  and  there's  a  long  story 
about  some  investments,  too,  that  I  guess  Norman 
Lewis  hasn't  said  anything  of  to  you.  He's  a 
close-mouthed  fellow,  ain't  he  ?  Yes,  and  a  nice 
fellow  too,  ain't  he !  Well,  the  truth  is,  Craig,  I 
haven't  known  very  well  where  I  stood.  Some- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  215 

times  I  think  I'm  about  through  and  that  I'd 
better  pull  out,  myself,  while  I  can,  provided 
everything  can  be  put  into  proper  shape.  Lewis 
keeps  telling  me  to  go  slow,  go  slow,  and  not  tie 
myself  up  anywhere,  till  we  can  see  just  where  we 
are.  Now  do  you  understand  why  I  held  you  off 
a  little  ?  It  isn't  that  I  think  any  less  of  Sally ; 
not  a  bit,  not  a  bit.  She's  all  right ;  there'll 
always  be  somebody  to  look  out  for  Sally." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  remarked  Sally's  betrothed, 
sturdily. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her  living  sometime  in  just 
the  sort  of  house  she  wants,"  Dr.  Atwood  went  on 
musingly.  "  Tell  her  so,  will  you  ?  And  show 
her  what  you've  drawn.  There  wouldn't  be  any 
harm  in  that ;  and  I  suppose  you  might  have 
some  fun  in  talking  it  over  together.  You've  got 
to  talk  about  something,  I  suppose.  Eh  ?  But  I 
want  it  understood  that  I  can't  bind  myself  to 
anything  just  now.  It'll  take  some  time  for  me 
to  get  out  of  the  woods.  Let's  see,  how  much 
money  did  that  design  of  yours  call  for  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  thousand  was  what  you  spoke  of," 
replied  the  architect. 

"H'm,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I'd  forgotten  just 
what  was  said.  Well,  that  ought  to  build  a  good 
house.  It's  a  good  deal  of  money,  but  I  don't 
know  but  money  might  as  well  go  that  way  as 
any  other.  It's  quite  a  problem  what  a  man  ought 
to  do  with  his  property,  provided  he  has  more 


216  THE  PLATED   CITY 

than  he  wants  himself.  Those  things  bother  a 
man  of  my  age  considerably.  Say,  did  you  ever 
read  a  book  called  Mammon  by  Harris  ? "  He 
took  it  from  the  table.  The  surprised  young 
fellow  shook  his  head. 

"No,  of  course  you  haven't.  Come  to  think 
of  it,  why  should  you?  Your  property  hasn't 
troubled  you  much  up  to  date,  has  it  ? "  The 
Doctor  chuckled  at  his  little  joke. 

"  Not  much,"  smiled  Kennedy. 

"  It's  curious  now,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  how  easy 
it  is  for  some  folks  to  divide  up  another  man's 
money  in  their  mind's  eye,  and  tell  him  just  what 
he  ought  to  do  with  it.  Even  this  fellow  Harris, 
who  seems  to  have  some  pretty  good  ideas,  gets 
into  that  streak  occasionally.  —  Where  is  that 
place  ?  Oh,  here.  What  do  you  think  of  this, 
for  instance  ?  '  In  the  great  majority  of  instances, 
however,  the  portion  of  the  testator's  property 
which  ought  to  be  set  aside  for  benevolent  pur 
poses,  is  more  clear  to  any  disinterested  consistent 
Christian,  than  it  is  to  the  testator  himself.'  How 
is  that  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Kennedy,  "I  should  think  a  man 
ought  to  know  his  own  business  best." 

"  Right  you  are  !  "  cried  the  Doctor.  "  I  guess 
Jim  Atwood  '11  have  the  say  about  his  own  prop 
erty,  and  not  those  disinterested  fellows  down  on 
Main  Street.  Eh?  You  can  tell  Sally  that  if 
you  want  to." 


THE  PLATED    CITY  217 

Craig  told  Sally  all  about  this  interview,  the 
next  evening,  and  the  girl  seemed  rather  awe 
struck  at  the  Doctor's  proposal. 

"  It's  all  on  account  of  mamma,"  she  whispered 
to  Craig.  "  The  Doctor  and  mamma,  you  know 
—  before  she  married  papa  —  do  you  know  ?  " 

Craig  said  he  knew. 

Whereupon  they  went  back  to  the  house  plans, 
and  though  they  agreed  at  the  outset,  and  again 
as  they  rolled  the  blue  sheets  up  at  last,  that  it 
really  made  no  difference  what  sort  of  house  they 
lived  in  if  they  only  had  each  other,  there  was  an 
hour  or  so,  in  between,  when  they  were  unanimous 
in  the  opinion  that  to  have  each  other  in  that 
particular  sort  of  house  would  be  very  agreeable 
indeed. 

It  was  when  Miss  Thayer  confided  the  Doctor's 
proposal  to  her  mother  that  the  affair  took  an  un 
expected  turn.  The  widow  had  listened  silently, 
but  with  growing  agitation,  to  Sally's  excited  nar 
rative.  Finally  she  stretched  out  her  thin  hand, 
and  her  fingers  tightened  around  her  daughter's 
wrist. 

"  Sarah  Thayer,"  she  said  huskily,  "  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  could  not  bear  to  have  that  happen.  It 
would  be  wrong  —  do  you  understand  why  ?  —  it 
would  be  wrong  !  Oh,  my  dear  girl,"  she  sobbed, 
"  don't  you  know  that  the  reason  he  is  doing 
this  is  that  ever  so  long  ago  he  —  he  —  wanted  to 
marry  me  ?  And  when  we  came  back  from  Bur- 


218  THE  PLATED   CITY 

mall,  —  you  and  I,  —  it  was  just  the  same  ;  he  had 
loved  me,  Sarah,  all  that  time,  and  I  was  married 
to  your  papa.  I  knew  it  was  wrong  for  him  to 
love  me  then,  and  it  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  let 
him  give  you  his  money  now.  He  would  be  doing 
it  because  of  me,  and  I  must  not  let  him  !  " 

Then  she  broke  down  completely,  and  hid  her 
face.  By  and  by,  with  another  effort  of  what  was 
still  an  iron  will,  she  calmed  herself. 

"  And  there  is  another  reason  why  I  wish  James 
Atwood  not  to  do  this.  Sally  dear,  do  you  know 
what  I  dread  for  you  more  than  anything  else  ? 
What  I  have  dreaded  for  you  ever  since  you 
were  a  little,  little  girl  ?  It  is  that  you  should 
grow  up  to  be  a  worldly  woman.  It  would  have 
been  better  for  you  to  die  out  there  in  Burmah 
and  be  buried  by  the  mission  chapel,  better  for 
you  and  for  me,  than  to  come  back  to  Barton- 
vale  and  grow  into  a  worldly  woman.  If  James 
Atwood  gave  you  that  fine  house,  the  best  house 
in  the  city,  as  you  say,  I  know  the  things  of  the 
world  would  gain  a  very  strong  hold  over  you, 
my  dear.  You  could  not  help  it,  living  in  such  a 
house,  on  the  very  top  of  the  hill.  And  it  makes 
me  afraid  to  think  of  it.  Can  you  not  be  very 
happy,  you  and  your  husband,  my  dear,  here  in 
the  little  house  on  the  Green  ?  '  Love  not  the 
world,  neither  the  things  that  are  in  the"  world.' 
It  passes  away,  Sally  —  you  remember  the  verses 
in  the  Epistle." 


THE  PLATED   CITY  219 

"  You  dear  mamma,"  said  the  girl,  softly,  "  don't 
be  troubled.  I  couldn't  be  any  happier  if  I  had 
all  the  houses  in  Connecticut.  Let  me  smooth 
your  forehead  a  little  —  there  —  there,  isn't  that 
nice  ?  " 

Several  minutes  passed.  Then  Mrs.  Thayer 
raised  herself,  struggling  with  a  smile  against  the 
pain  that  daily  tortured  her.  Her  eyes  were  very 
bright. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  James  Atwood,"  she  said. 
"  He  lives  all  alone  in  the  old  house,  except  for 
hired  servants  and  that  French  girl.  I  am  glad 
you  are  so  kind  to  her,  Sally,  but  I  wouldn't  get 
too  intimate,  if  I  were  you  !  I  don't  know  how 
much  comfort  he  takes,  as  he  grows  old,  but  I 
want  to  get  him  to  do  something  that  will  give 
him  happiness  as  long  as  he  lives.  Will  you  give 
me  some  paper  and  ink,  Sally  ?  " 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  It 
was  years  since  the  widow  had  penned  a  line. 

"  Yes,  please.  I  feel  quite  strong  this  after 
noon,  and  I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  am  going 
to  write  a  note  to  James  Atwood." 


220 


XI 


THE  turnstiles  at  the  Polo  Grounds  clicked, 
clicked,  as  if  there  had  never  been  an  opening  day 
for  the  League  before,  and  might  never  be  again. 
It  was  scarcely  three  o'clock,  but  the  crowd 
streamed  in  from  the  elevated  road,  the  surface 
cars,  and  the  dusty  pavements,  without  cessation. 
If  base-ball  was  losing  its  hold  of  the  popular 
heart,  as  croakers  affirmed,  there  ^was  as  yet  no 
evidence  of  it  in  New  York.  The  huge  "  bleach 
ers  "  that  stretched  away  on  either  side  of  the 
grounds  were  packed,  an  hour  before  the  game, 
with  spectators  that  needed  not  the  strains  of  the 
Harlem  band  to  arouse  their  enthusiasm,  and  the 
rocks  on  Deadhead  Hill  were  black  with  men  and 
boys.  On  the  grand  stand  the  April  air  was 
chilly,  and  the  first  comers  climbed  down  to  the 
front  seats,  as  much  to  get  into  the  sunshine,  as  to 
secure  a  better  view  of  the  players.  But  out  on 
the  "  bleachers "  there  was  a  comfortable  spring 
time  warmth,  and  the  ancient  patrons  of  the  game 
sunned  themselves  contentedly  upon  the  familiar 
boards,  and  exchanged  connoisseur-like  specula 
tions  upon  the  relative  strength  of  the  contesting 
teams. 


THE  PLATED    CITY  221 

The  New  York  nine  had  had  its  annual  "  shaking 
up,"  with  what  betterment  of  its  chances  for  the 
championship,  however,  remained  to  be  seen.  Their 
opponents  for  the  opening  game  of  the  season  were 
the  "Buccaneers,"  whose  brilliant  though  belated 
rush  for  the  pennant  the  year  before  had  placed 
them  at  the  top  of  the  League.  The  Buccaneers 
had  likewise  secured  some  new  players;  a  pitcher 
or  two  from  one  of  the  minor  leagues,  and  an 
in-fielder  from  California,  a  Spaniard,  it  was  said, 
who  had  made  a  phenomenal  record  on  the  Pacific 
Coast  during  the  winter.  As  the  time  for  calling 
the  game  drew  near,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd 
grew  momentarily.  Men  from  both  teams  were 
on  the  field,  batting  flies,  and  throwing  around 
the  bases,  or  pitching  and  catching  over  in  the 
shadow  of  the  grand  stand.  Now  and  then  a 
clever  pick-up  or  long  running  catch  was  greeted 
with  an  applause  that  showed  that  not  a  move 
ment  of  the  men  was  lost  upon  the  spectators,  and 
the  veterans,  on  both  sides,  received  shouts  of 
friendly  recognition.  At  last  the  field  was 
cleared,  the  band  struck  up  a  march,  the  players 
and  their  mascots  filed  out  upon  the  diamond 
amid  tumultuous  acclamation,  and  wheeled  off 
toward  their  respective  benches.  The  Buccaneers 
took  the  field,  the  umpire  turned  up  the  legs  of  his 
trousers,  and  the  game  began. 

Two  or  three  innings  had  passed,  when  a  black- 
coated  body  of  working  men,  forty  or  fifty  strong, 


222  THE  PLATED   CITY 

pushed  their  way  vociferously  along  the  front  of 
the  bleachers,  on  the  east  side.  They  had  come 
down  from  Connecticut,  on  excursion  tickets,  to 
witness  the  opening  game  of  the  League,  and  were 
wrathful  at  the  lateness  of  their  train.  After  some 
difficulty,  they  squeezed  into  top  seats,  and  lighted 
fresh  cigars,  in  full  consciousness  that  Bartonvale 
ought  to  show  itself  on  familiar  terms  with  the 
ways  of  the  Polo  Grounds.  A  few  of  them  bought 
score  cards,  and  volubly  instructed  the  rest  as  to 
the  personnel  of  the  two  teams.  As  no  runs  had 
been  made  on  either  side,  the  Plated  City  excur 
sionists  soon  persuaded  themselves  that  they  had 
not  lost  much,  and  their  normal  good  humor  re 
turned  to  them.  They  vied  with  one  another  in 
picturesque  comment  upon  the  game,  and  no  feat 
ure  of  it  escaped  their  eager  notice- 
All  at  once,  the  New  Yorks  being  at  the  bat,  a 
ball  was  hit  sharply  to  second.  The  Buccaneer 
fumbled  it  for  an  instant,  and  then  recovering  him 
self  dexterously,  threw  his  man  out  in  the  very 
nick  of  time. 

"  Say,  who  is  that  fellow  ?  "  exclaimed  one  of  the 
Bartonvale  men.  "  He  throws  like  Tom  Beaulieu, 
don't  he  !  " 

"  Got  that  same  over-hand  motion,"  said  the  one 
addressed.  "Tom  used  to  play  an  awful  good 
third,  didn't  he  !  Let's  see,  where  is  he  now  ? 
Out  West,  somewhere,  aint  he  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  read  the  Sun  !  "  put  in  another, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  223 

contemptuously.  "  Didn't  you  know  Tom  was  in 
California  ?  They  say  he  is  making  big  pay  there 
this  year." 

"  Seems  to  me  I  did  hear  that,"  was  the  reply. 
"  That  fellow  on  second  reminded  me  a  little  of 
Tom.  Bigger,  though,  ain't  he  ?  " 

It  was  a  dull  stage  of  the  game  just  then,  and 
this  question  proved  a  fertile  one  to  the  Barton  vale 
specialists.  They  agreed  on  the  whole,  that  if  the 
Buccaneer  second  baseman  would  pull  off  that  big 
sweater,  or  rather,  keep  it  on,  and  run  a  dozen 
miles  a  day,  he  might  get  down  to  Tom  Beaulieu's 
figure,  but  that  Beaulieu  was  a  better  ball-player 
than  the  Buccaneers  had  ever  got  hold  of  yet. 

"  What's  that  second  baseman's  name  ?  "  some 
one  asked  languidly.  "  Where's  your  score  card  ? 
Oh,  sure  enough,  Mendoza !  The  Spaniard,  you 
know." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  man  who  read  the 
Sun.  "  I  heard  they  were  going  to  try  him  at 
second." 

Just  then  a  man  hit  safely,  and  they  stopped 
talking.  The  batter  following  made  what  seemed 
like  a  safe  hit  too,  a  hot  ground  ball  almost  directly 
over  second.  The  crowd  yelled.  But  Mendoza 
darted  toward  the  ball,  picked  it  up  on  the  dead 
run  with  one  hand,  touched  the  bag  in  passing,  and 
then,  wheeling,  threw  the  runner  out  at  first  as 
coolly  as  if  he  had  the  whole  afternoon  before  him. 
It  was  a  double  play  that  sent  a  roar  of  delight  all 


224  THE  PLATED   CITY 

around  the  field :  that  was  something  like  base 
ball  as  it  used  to  be  ! 

"  Bully  for  the  Spaniard  !  "  sang  out  somebody 
on  the  east  side  of  the  field. 

The  cry  brought  one  of  the  Bartonvale  men  to 
his  feet  like  magic.  For  him  there  was  just  one 
ball-player,  and  no  other,  capable  of  a  stop  and 
throw  like  that. 

"  Spaniard  be  d — d  !  "  he  screamed  hoarsely. 
"  That's  Tom  Beaulieu  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  that  name  the  second  baseman 
unconsciously  turned  his  face  towards  the  bleach 
ers,  and  then  the  other  forty  Bartonvale  men 
recognized  him  too,  and  jumped  up  on  their  nar 
row  board  seats  and  shouted  as  one  man  :  — 

"  Hullo  !  !     Tom ! ! " 

A  prompt  and  unsympathetic  chorus  of  "Shut 
up  !  "  "  Sit  down  !  "  greeted  this  display  of  pro 
vincial  patriotism,  and  the  Plated  City  men  re 
sumed  their  seats  slowly,  a  few  of  them  still 
waving  their  hats  toward  the  Spaniard,  who  ob 
stinately  refused  to  look  their  way  again.  They 
quite  lost  interest  in  the  rest  of  the  inning,  so 
intent  were  they  upon  framing  satisfactory  theories 
to  account  for  Tom  Beaulieu's  appearance,  under 
an  assumed  name,  among  the  Buccaneers.  Their 
demonstrations  of  proud  acquaintance  with  a  mys 
terious  player,  about  whose  engagement  by  the 
Buccaneers  the  papers  had  had  already  much 
to  say,  excited  curiosity  all  along  the  bleachers. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  225 

Two  bronzed-faced  young  men,  in  particular,  sit 
ting  close  behind  the  Bartonvale  delegates,  lis 
tened  attentively  to  their  guesses  about  Beaulieu. 
Finally  one  of  them  touched  a  Bartonvale  man  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  What  are  you  fellers  givin'  us  about  de  man 
on  second  ?  " 

"It's  Tom  Beaulieu,"  was  the  complacent  re 
sponse.  "  Played  third  on  the  Plated  Citys  last 
year,  and  led  the  State  League  in  batting.  He's 
a  daisy.  Why,  I've  seen  that  fellow  play  ball 
ever  since  he  was  so  high  ! " 

"  Then  he  ain't  no  Spaniard  ?  " 

"Spaniard?  No.  I  guess  you'll  find  he  comes 
nearer  being  a  nigger  !  " 

"A  coon?"     The  man  scowled. 

"  That's  what  they  say.  I  dunno.  He's  always 
passed  for  a  nigger,  anyway.  Seems  to  me  last 
summer,  though,  Tom  claimed  to  be  a  white  man, 
after  all.  Pretty  late  in  the  day,  I  guess,  though 
he's  light  enough."  And  the  Bartonvale  man 
turned  back  to  the  game  again. 

"  D'ye  mind  dat,  Mike  ! "  exclaimed  the  bronzed- 
faced  man  to  his  companion.  They  were  both 
professional  players,  and  the  speaker  had  just 
been  released  by  the  Buccaneers.  "  D'ye  mind 
dat,  man  ?  Dat  gives  away  de  whole  bluff,  eh  ? 
Mendoza's  a  coon  !  Let  him  sign  wid  de  Cuban 
Giants :  dere  ain't  no  place  for  him  in  de  big 
League.  It  won't  go  down.  Say,  won't  dere  be 
Q 


226  THE  PLATED   CITY 

de  hell  of  a  row  when  dis  gets  out  among  de 
bhoys  ? " 

His  friend  winked,  with  a  black  look  at  the 
man  who  had  usurped  an  American's  place. 

Upon  Tom  Beaulieu  himself,  the  unexpected 
recognition  of  his  townsmen  wrought  disastrously. 
He  made  a  hit  in  the  fifth  with  his  wonted  clever 
ness,  and  the  Bartonvale  excursionists  clapped  and 
stamped.  It  was  like  old  times  !  But  their 
applause  seemed  to  confuse  the  Spaniard,  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  caught  napping  on  first, 
amid  the  jeers  of  the  supporters  of  the  New 
Yorks.  In  the  seventh  inning  he  let  an  easy 
ground  ball  roll  between  his  legs,  and  stood 
looking  after  it  in  a  dazed  fashion  that  called 
out  an  amazed  oath  from  the  captain  of  the 
Buccaneers.  Mendoza  was  clearly  "  off "  for  some 
reason  or  other,  and  when  the  New  Yorks  drew 
ahead  in  the  eighth,  it  was  deemed  more  prudent 
to  send  him  to  the  bench,  to  the  disgust  of  the 
men  from  Bartonvale.  In  the  ninth,  when  a  hit 
would  have  saved  the  day  for  the  Buccaneers,  and 
the  man  who  had  taken  Beaulieu's  place  struck 
out,  the  Plated  City  connoisseurs  agreed  that  it 
served  the  Buccaneers  quite  right  for  taking  Tom 
out  of  the  game.  They  entertained  each  other, 
the  two  bronzed-faced  men,  and  many  another  base 
ball  enthusiast,  all  the  way  out  to  the  entrance  of 
the  Polo  Grounds,  with  reminiscences  of  close 
games  which  had  been  won  by  Tom  Beaulieu's 


THE  PLATED   CITY  227 

timely  batting  in  the  ninth.  A  dozen  of  them 
lingered  about  the  entrance,  in  the  hope  of  catch 
ing  a  glimpse  of  their  metamorphosed  fellow-towns 
man,  but  he  stayed  in  the  dressing-room  until  long 
after  the  last  spectator  had  left  the  field. 

"  Witt  they  keep  the  Spaniard  f  "  was  the  head 
line  that  caught  Esther  Beaulieu's  eye  the  next 
afternoon,  as  she  furtively  opened  the  New  York 
paper.  Tom  had  written  her,  days  before,  to  be 
on  the  watch  for  his  first  game  in  the  League.  To 
her  bewilderment,  the  paper  seemed  to  imply  that 
the  Spaniard's  playing  had  not  been  satisfactory. 
The  technical  language  of  the  paragraph,  which 
headed  the  columns  devoted  to  base-ball  gossip, 
was  quite  incomprehensible  to  her,  but  it  was 
plain  enough  that,  in  spite  of  one  or  two  brill 
iant  plays,  Mendoza  had  done  some  stupid  things, 
and  very  likely  had  lost  the  game  for  the  Buc 
caneers.  Her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  swift 
sisterly  pity.  It  must  be  such  a  terrible  disap 
pointment  to  Tom  !  He  had  written  so  hopefully 
of  his  engagement  in  the  big  League  ;  it  seemed 
to  crown  his  phenomenal  winter's  work  in  Cali 
fornia.  She  had  riot  seen  him  since  he  came 
East,  for  it  had  been  necessary  for  him  to  join 
the  Buccaneers  at  once.  She  had  had  nothing 
to  go  by  except  two  or  three  letters,  and  they 
had  never  hinted  at  a  possibility  of  failure  :  they 
had  made  her  happy  all  through  the  dragging 


228  THE  PLATED   CITY 

New  England  spring.  The  assumed  name  had 
indeed  not  ceased  to  cause  her  misgivings,  but 
in  her  ignorance  of  the  American  sporting  world, 
she  had  accepted  Tom's  assurance  that  the 
Spanish  name  was  in  his  case  a  necessary  part 
of  his  professional  career ;  something,  she  sup 
posed,  like  the  stage-name  of  an  actor.  And  even 
now  it  did  not  appear  that  the  false  name  had 
caused  any  trouble.  It  was  simply  that  the  new 
player  had  failed  to  justify  expectations.  Poor 
Tom  !  but  surely  they  would  give  him  another 
chance?  Her  eyes  filled  as  she  thought  of  his 
failing  now,  after  all  his  dreams. 

Wait  !  There  was  another  paragraph  still  ! 
There  were  some  curious  rumors  among  the 
spectators,  it  went  on  to  say,  regarding  the  real 
identity  of  the  California  player  whose  purchase 
by  the  Buccaneers  had  excited  so  much  interest 
in  the  base-ball  world.  It  had  been  stated  posi 
tively  on  the  bleaching  boards  that  Mendoza  was 
the  man  whose  great  batting  record,  the  previous 
season,  in  the  Connecticut  State  League,  was  still 
fresh  in  the  minds  of  many  a  lover  of  the  national 
game.  This  was  a  very  singular  coincidence. 
Perhaps  the  manager  of  the  Buccaneers  could 
throw  light  upon  it  if  he  cared  to.  One  thing 
would  be  evident  to  everybody  ;  there  would  be 
no  occasion  for  any  discussion  of  the  color  line  in 
connection  with  players  of  the  National  League. 
That  point  had  been  settled,  years  before. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  229 

Miss  Beaulieu  laid  down  the  paper  with  the  old 
terror  at  her  heart.  If  it  was  a  question  of  the 
color  line,  she  felt  drearily  certain  that  Tom's 
doom  was  sealed.  And  the  next  day,  surely 
enough,  the  head-line  ran  :  "  He's  a  Connecticut 
Spaniard,  After  AIL  How  is  this,  Buccaneers  ?  " 
A  reporter  had  been  sent  to  Bartonvale,  and  the 
personal  and  professional  history  of  Tom  Beau- 
lieu,  alias  Mendoza,  was  given  in  full  detail.  It 
was  only  fair,  to  state,  the  paragraph  added,  that 
in  Beaulieu's  native  town  there  were  some  who 
doubted  the  fact  that  he  was  a  negro.  Yet  he 
had  been  allowed  to  play  in  the  State  League, 
under  a  special  agreement,  with  the  understanding 
that  he  was  a  colored  man.  And  why  should  the 
California  manager  who  had  sold  his  services  to 
the  Buccaneers,  and  the  Buccaneers'  manager  who 
had  bought  them,  try  to  impose  upon  the  public 
in  this  fashion  ?  Let  us  have,  this  year,  straight 
base-ball !  An  interview  with  the  manager  of  the 
Buccaneers  followed.  His  tone  was  inclined  to  be 
combative.  He  had  positive  legal  proofs  in  his 
possession,  he  said,  which  rendered  any  discussion 
of  the  color  line,  in  connection  with  Beaulieu,  a 
piece  of  absurdity ;  there  was  no  law  against  a 
player's  assuming  any  name  he  pleased ;  and  the 
Buccaneers  did  not  propose  to  part  with  what 
promised  to  be  a  valuable  acquisition  to  their 
team,  in  obedience  to  a  little  foolish  talk  at  the 
opening  of  the  season.  Is  this  a  bluff?  queried 


230  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  editor  of  the  sporting  column.  If  the  man 
ager  means  business,  why  was  not  Beaulieu  played 
in  the  second  game  of  the  series  ? 

Rain  prevented  the  third  game  which  the  Buc 
caneers  were  scheduled  to  play  in  New  York,  and 
they  moved  on  to  Boston.  The  discussion  of 
Mendoza's  capacity  as  a  player,  and  his  eligibility 
to  an  engagement  in  the  National  League,  was 
continued  in  the  Boston  papers,  but  it  yielded 
place  in  the  New  York  dailies  to  other  base-ball 
topics  of  still  more  pressing  interest.  Esther 
Beaulieu  was  left  in  ignorance  of  her  brother's 
fate.  For  a  whole  week  there  was  no  word  of 
the  Spaniard  in  the  paper,  and  still  no  letter  from 
him  came.  Her  anxiety  deepened  daily,  but  she 
shrank  from  saying  anything  to  the  Doctor,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  with  whom  she  felt  she 
could  discuss  Tom's  affairs.  She  pictured  him 
growing  reckless  and  despondent,  ostracized  by 
his  associates,  and  yet  dreading  to  come  back  to 
Bartonvale  and  acknowledge  the  failure  of  his 
great  venture.  Oh,  if  he  would  but  come  back, 
and  let  her  pet  him  into  forgetfulness  of  all  else 
but  her,  were  it  only  for  a  day  !  Then  they  two 
would  plan  and  plan  once  more,  as  they  had  in 
those  August  days  of  the  year  before,  and  some 
thing  might  happen  yet !  There  were  so  many 
chances  —  and  happy  chances  —  in  the  world. 
Had  not  her  own  life,  for  the  last  few  months, 
proved  it  ?  And  Pierre  Beaulieu's  daughter,  in 


THE  PLATED   CITY  231 

spite  of  her  forebodings,  dreamed  out  future  after 
future,  in  which  all  might  still  be  well  for  herself 
and  Tom. 

Meantime  the  ball-player's  professional  career 
was  rapidly  approaching  its  crisis,  if  indeed  its  cri 
sis  had  not  been  reached  in  New  York  at  that  shout 
of  recognition  from  the  natives  of  the  Plated  City. 
The  real  difficulty,  as  the  manager  of  the  Bucca 
neers  perceived  the  very  day  after  that  opening 
game,  lay  in  the  attitude  of  Mendoza's  fellow- 
players.  Some  one  had  evidently  been  talking 
to  them,  and  the  sudden  jealousy  and  hostility 
towards  the  new  in-fielder  had  been  so  marked 
that  it  was  considered  inadvisable  to  play  him  in 
the  second  game.  The  captain  of  the  team  made 
no  secret  of  their  disaffection,  nor  of  the  cause  for 
it :  the  Buccaneers  did  not  propose  to  play  on  the 
same  team  with  a  colored  man.  In  vain  did  the 
manager,  loath  to  lose  a  player  of  Beaulieu's  stamp, 
try  ridicule,  persuasion,  command.  He  brought 
out  a  copy  of  the  affidavit,  which  his  man  had 
obtained  before  leaving  Bartonvale,  and  showed 
it  to  the  player  who  was  most  open  in  his  resent 
ment  at  Beaulieu's  engagement.  It  happened 
that  the  fellow  had  studied  law  for  a  while  before 
betaking  himself  to  the  diamond,  and  being  shrewd 
enough  to  look  behind  Lewis's  legal  phrases  and 
discover  the  purely  negative  character  of  the  asser 
tions  therein  made,  he  simply  laughed  in  the  mana 
ger's  face.  The  talk  of  the  men  grew  hourly  more 


232  THE  PLATED   CITY 

open.  The  Spaniard  was  sullen  and  resentful. 
Nothing  but  prompt  intervention  prevented  a  row 
in  the  parlor  car,  as  they  were  on  their  way  to 
Boston,  one  of  the  players  having  remarked  that 
for  him  one  nigger  at  a  time  in  a  drawing-room 
car  was  enough,  and  that  nigger  was  the  porter. 
In  the  first  Boston  game,  the  captain  of  the  Bucca 
neers  was  persuaded  to  put  Mendoza  on  second 
again.  He  played  marvellous  ball,  but  the  rest  of 
the  team  sulked,  and  the  Bostons  won  as  they 
pleased.  In  the  Buccaneers'  dressing-room,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later,  there  was  a  quarrel  in 
which  the  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  Irish  kings 
was  knocked  down,  and  for  some  ten  minutes  his 
sorrowing  associates  were  betting,  five  to  three, 
that  he  would  never  get  up  again.  He  did,  at 
last,  but  the  incident  proved  conclusively  to  the 
manager  that  it  was  impossible  to  maintain  har 
mony  in  the  team,  and  he  was  reluctantly  obliged 
to  give  way.  The  next  day  Esther  Beaulieu's 
paper  contained  a  dispatch  from  Boston  to  the 
effect  that  Mendoza,  the  much  advertised  second- 
baseman  of  the  Buccaneers,  had  been  released. 

It  was  a  fatal  blow  to  Tom's  hopes,  though  he, 
too,  had  gloomily  foreseen  it,  since  the  first  day 
in  New  York.  Henceforth  the  only  livelihood  he 
had  known  was  closed  to  him.  No  League  team 
would  have  him  now.  After  the  publicity  given 
to  his  case  it  was  not  likely  that  he  could  find  an 
engagement  even  in  one  of  the  minor  base-ball 


THE  PLATED   CITY  233 

organizations.  The  Connecticut  League,  in  which 
the  adroit  wire-pulling  of  his  friends  had  with 
difficulty  secured  permission  for  him  to  play  the 
year  before,  had  this  season  gone  out  of  existence. 
There  was  no  use  in  going  back  to  California, 
where  his  old  manager  had  so  easily  persuaded 
him  to  try  the  assumed  name.  They  would  hoot 
at  "  the  Spaniard  "  now.  As  a  ball-player,  he  had 
but  one  resource  :  it  was  to  seek  an  engagement 
with  the  Cuban  Giants,  and  thus  confess  himself 
a  negro,  once  for  all.  And  this,  with  a  pride  that 
had  for  long  months  grown  great,  now  that  he 
tasted  equality,  he  swore  he  would  not  do.  He 
was  as  good  a  white  man  as  anybody,  was  he  not, 
in  spite  of  the  stigma  which  he  had  borne  all  his 
life?  Why  not?  And  again  and  again,  in  the 
days  that  followed  his  release,  he  locked  the  door 
of  his  hotel,  or  chose  some  deserted  bench  on  the 
Common,  and  spelled  out  the  blind  phrases  of  his 
tattered  affidavit,  and  tried  to  carry  his  head  high. 
He  was  as  good  as  anybody ;  he  would  serve  the 
first  man  that  doubted  it  as  he  had  served  that 
sneering  fellow  in  the  dressing-room.  Yet  he 
shrank  from  going  back  to  the  Plated  City.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  walk  its  streets 
again  and  look  his  old  admirers  in  the  eye.  Some 
one  would  be  sure  to  whisper  "  Spaniard  "  at  him 
around  the  corner  of  the  street,  or  ask  him  why 
he  was  not  playing  ball.  No,  he  could  not  go 
back  to  Bartonvale,  not  even  to  see  Esther.  Deep 


234  THE  PLATED   CITY 

down  in  his  heart,  he  knew  that  she  would  be 
better  off  without  him.  He  had  felt  that  when 
he  started  for  California.  It  was  doubly  true 
now,  when,  as  her  long  letters  in  the  winter  had 
told  him,  she  was  living  up  at  Dr.  Atwood's,  on 
the  Hill.  There  was  no  place  for  him  there,  and 
however  lovingly  she  might  have  written  about 
going  away  with  him  sometime,  when  he  had  made 
the  fortune  of  which  he  wrote  her,  or  whether  he 
did  or  not,  there  must  be  no  more  talk  of  that, 
now  that  he  was  discredited  and  perhaps  going  to 
the  dogs.  He  ought  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  and 
not  spoil  her  chances  too. 

So,  week  after  week,  he  stayed  on  in  the  North 
End  of  Boston,  living  upon  his  winter's  earnings, 
and  finding  plenty  of  persons  who  were  willing  to 
help  him  spend  them,  without  ever  drawing  the 
color  line.  He  drank  hard,  some  days,  and  was 
loud  and  free  in  his  talk,  but  his  more  common 
mood  was  one  of  reticence,  almost  moroseness,  and 
there  was  at  times  a  sullen  fierceness  in  his  face, 
as  he  sat  brooding  over  his  affidavit,  or  sauntered 
defiantly  along  the  North  End  streets.  One  day, 
thanks  to  the  good-natured  manager  of  the  Buc 
caneers,  there  was  forwarded  to  him  one  of  the 
anxious  letters  which  Esther  had  persisted  in 
sending  to  all  the  cities  where  she  read  that  the 
Buccaneers  were  playing  ball.  He  read  it  many 
times,  gloomily,  and  then  wrote  an  answer  on  the 
paper  of  a  third-rate  hotel. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  235 

"As  for  coming  back  to  Bartonvale  I  can't  no 
how.  Not  after  what's  happened.  Except  at 
night.  If  you  ever  hear  a  little  knock  at  At- 
wood's  back  door,  when  everything's  quiet,  it's 
me.  Say,  will  you  do  something  ?  See  old  Cyrus 
Calhoun  yourself  and  make  him  tell  you  every 
word  he  knows  about  mother.  I  hated  to  ask 
him.  Mr.  Kennedy  had  a  lawyer  see  him,  but 
the  lawyer  might  lie.  They  wouldn't  believe 
the  affidavit.  Calhoun  works  in  the  machine 
shops  and  does  over  time  most  every  night,  if 
you  don't  want  to  go  day  times.  I  am  not  going 
to  drink  any  more.  But  don't  know  what  will 
become  of 

"  Your  loving  brother, 

"  TOM  BEAULIEU." 


236  THE  PLATED   CITY 


XII 


SALLY  THAYER'S  wedding  day  was  set  for  the 
first  week  of  June.  The  state  of  her  mother's 
health,  and  the  tiny  size  of  the  house  on  the  Green, 
made  any  elaborate  affair  out  of  the  question^  and 
the  Hill  people  were  scarcely  surprised  to  learn 
that  the  ceremony  would  be  private.  But  the 
house  committee  of  the  Mattawanset  Club  put 
their  heads  together  It  happened  that  Craig 
Kennedy  had  in  January  been  chosen  president  of 
the  Club.  What  could  be  more  fitting,  considering 
all  the  circumstances,  than  that  the  Club  should 
tender  its  president  and  his  bride  a  reception,  fol 
lowing  the  ceremony  at  the  house  ?  This  solution 
of  the  difficulty  that  had  seemed  to  prevent  the 
two  most  popular  young  persons  in  the  Hill  set 
from  having  a  proper  "  send  off  "  was  hailed  with 
universal  acclamation.  Craig  and  Sally,  indeed, 
were  in  too  transcendental  a  mood  all  through 
May  to  take  any  great  interest  in  the  preparations 
to  do  them  honor,  but  they  acquiesced  in  every 
thing,  and  the  house  committee  went  triumphantly 
ahead. 

One  incident  alone  occurred  during  those  final 
weeks  to  cause  Miss  Thayer  some  of  the  perplexity 


THE  PLATED   CITY  237 

which  no  bride  escapes,  however  loyally  the  en 
deavor  is  made  to  take  all  perplexities  out  of  her 
hands.  It  concerned  the  question  of  inviting 
Esther  Beaulieu  to  the  reception  at  the  club  house. 
The  house  committee,  in  whose  name  the  invita 
tions  were  to  be  issued,  felt  themselves  in  a  pecu 
liar  position.  Dr.  Atwood's  interest  in  Miss 
Thayer  was  well  understood,  and  the  impression 
was  prevalent  upon  the  Hill  that  in  making  her 
a  wedding  present  he  would  evince  an  extravagant 
generosity.  But  Dr.  Atwood  was  also  well  under 
stood  to  be  the  champion  of  Esther  Beaulieu,  and 
likely  to  resent  any  slight  that  might  be  cast  upon 
her.  To  be  sure,  he  had  never  made  any  attempt 
to  launch  her  in  the  Hill  society,  but  he  was  felt 
to  be  quite  capable  of  making  such  an  effort  if  the 
idea  occurred  to  him.  Would  the  chivalrous  old 
gentleman  be  angered  if  his  "  ward "  —  as  some 
people  were  beginning  to  call  Esther  Beaulieu  — 
were  not  asked  to  the  wedding  reception  of  the 
girl  who  had  so  long  been  the  Doctor's  favorite  ? 
The  question  was  still  further  complicated  by 
the  fact  of  Miss  Thayer's  friendship  for  Esther 
Beaulieu.  The  relations  of  the  two  young  women 
had  grown  constantly  more  cordial  throughout 
the  winter,  and  if  there  was  not  now  a  real  inti 
macy  between  them,  there  was  something  very 
like  it.  Would  it  be  courteous  to  the  bride  to 
fail  to  invite  to  her  bridal  reception  a  young 
woman  with  whom  she  was  obviously  on  the 


238  THE  PLATED   CITY 

friendliest  terms  ?  And  yet  the  house  committee 
had  to  face  the  awkward  truth  that  the  Hill 
people  —  Miss  Thayer  and  one  or  two  church 
workers  excepted — had  never  chosen  to  recognize 
the  existence  of  Esther  Beaulieu.  They  had  in 
deed  entertained  themselves  by  discussing  her 
relations  with  Dr.  Atwood  from  every  possible 
point  of  view,  but  as  far  as  the  girl  herself  was 
concerned,  they  had  ignored  her  as  completely  as  if 
she  had  lived  in  Central  Africa,  where,  to  tell  the 
truth,  a  good  many  Plated  City  people  persisted 
in  thinking  that  she  really  belonged.  She  was 
born  on  Nigger  Hill,  was  she  not  ?  Very  well, 
Dr.  Atwood  ought  to  have  let  her  stay  there. 
Thus  reasoned  the  residents  upon  Summit  Street. 

Finally,  the  very  day  before  the  cards  were  to 
be  issued,  the  wavering  house  committee  seized 
upon  Norman  Lewis.  As  he  was  to  be  Kennedy's 
best  man,  and  had  hitherto  had  no  official  func 
tions  whatever,  they  persuaded  him  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  ascertain  the  bride's  wishes  in  regard 
to  Dr.  Atwood's  ward.  If  Miss  Thayer  wanted 
her  at  the  reception,  the  committee  gallantly 
asseverated,  at  the  reception  she  should  be,  even  if 
half  the  Hill  people  stayed  away  in  consequence. 

Armed  with  these  instructions,  Lewis  presented 
himself  at  the  Thayer  house  that  evening,  and 
found  Miss  Sally  burning  various  bundles  of  old 
letters  in  the  parlor  fireplace.  He  chose  to  be 
amused  at  the  solemnity  with  which  she  was  per- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  239 

forming  this  ceremony,  and  insisted  upon  helping 
her  tear  up  the  final  bundle  and  throw  the  bits 
into  the  flames,  making  droll  remarks  the  while 
upon  the  necessity  she  seemed  to  feel  of  burning 
her  ships  behind  her.  Then  they  passed  joint 
eulogies  upon  Craig,  for  a  while,  and  at  last 
Lewis  broached  his  errand.  She  listened  gravely, 
thrusting  away  with  the  poker  at  the  charred 
remains  of  her  maiden  correspondence. 

"  What  a  funny  way  men  have  of  doing 
things  ! "  she  broke  out  at  last.  "  But  it's 
very  nice  of  the  house  committee  to  send  you 
down." 

He  bowed.     "Is  that  all  I  shall   tell  them?" 

"No,  I  suppose  I  must  settle  it,"  she  said 
vaguely.  "  Dear  me,  what  a  mixed-up  world  it 
is,  isn't  it !  And  Mrs.  Gascoigne  not  back  yet,  to 
straighten  everything  out  for  us  !  Isn't  it  unfort 
unate  ?  " 

"  Very,"  assented  Lewis,  encouragingly. 

"  Esther  was  in  here  this  very  afternoon,"  con 
tinued  Miss  Thayer.  "  I  like  her  ever  so  much ; 
I  think  she  is  charming.  I  showed  her  some  of 
my  things,  —  gowns,  you  know,  —  and  she  was  as 
pleased  as  a  child.  And  my  going-away  bonnet — 
is  it  awful  for  me  to  be  telling  you  these  mys 
teries  ?  —  wasn't  just  right.  It  wanted  the  merest 
tilt.  I  knew,  but  I  couldn't  tell  where.  The  very 
instant  that  girl  saw  it,  she  discovered  what  the 
matter  was,  and  she  simply  stroked  it  a  little  here, 


240  THE  PLATED  CITY 

and  coaxed  it  a  little  there,  and,  well,  you  shall 
see  if  it  isn't  lovely  !  Or  wouldn't  you  know  the 
difference  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't,"  said  Lewis,  humbly. 
"But  I'll  keep  an  eye  out  for  it,  nevertheless, 
if  my  other  duties  on  the  6th  don't  prove  too 
engrossing." 

"They  won't  be  severe,"  laughed  Miss  Thayer. 
"  Really  I  think  the  matter  of  Esther  Beaulieu's 
invitation  is  the  most  puzzling  thing  we've  had  to 
face.  The  Doctor  will  be  angry  if  she  isn't 
asked,  I'm  afraid,  and  plenty  of  other  people  will 
be  angry  if  she  is." 

"Then  suppose  you  check  those  two  facts  off 
against  each  other,"  suggested  Lewis,  "  and  settle 
the  question  on  some  other  basis.  Would  you 
mind  my  asking  if  you  would  invite  her  in  case 
your  mother's  cards  were  going  out  for  a  recep 
tion  here  ?  " 

"  In  that  case,"  replied  Miss  Thayer,  shutting 
her  lips  resolutely,  "I  should  invite  her.  It 
would  be  cruel  not  to.  And  why  shouldn't  I  ? 
Because  some  people  persist  in  thinking  that  her 
mother  was  a  colored  woman  ?  " 

"No  one  absolutely  knows  that  her  mother 
wasn't  a  colored  woman,"  said  Lewis.  "  It's  the 
uncertainty  that's  the  girl's  fate.  We  tried  to 
clear  things  up  for  Tom  Beaulieu  last  year,  you 
know,  and  I  suspect  we  might  better  have  left 
him  alone.  Did  Craig  tell  you  about  Tom's 


THE  PLATED   CITY  241 

trouble  this  spring  ?  We've  managed  to  kill  him 
as  a  ball-player,  and  for  all  I  know  ruin  him  as  a 
man,  by  encouraging  him  to  believe  that  he  was 
white.  Did  his  sister  ever  say  anything  about 
him  to  you  ?  " 

Miss  Thayer  shook  her  head.  "  Has  she  to 
you  ? "  she  asked,  her  mind  intent  upon  Tom 
Beaulieu's  experiment. 

"  Once,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  that  made  her 
look  up  suddenly.  "  She  asked  me  to  help  her 
get  Tom's  address.  It  was  pitiful." 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "do  you  know  her 
well  ?  I  didn't  know  that  you  knew  her  at  all, 
to  speak  of  :  I  didn't  think  what  I  was  saying 
when  I  asked  if  she  had  ever  spoken  to  you  of 
Tom." 

"  Oh,  I  have  seen  her  a  good  many  times,"  said 
Lewis,  more  lightly  than  before.  "  The  Doctor 
talks  over  some  of  his  business  affairs  with  me, 
and  we  are  less  likely  to  be  interrupted  at  the 
house  than  at  his  office  or  mine." 

"  But  she  doesn't  join  in  the  consultations  ?  " 
queried  Miss  Thayer. 

"  No,"  laughed  Lewis,  "  I  can't  say  that.  Never 
theless  I  usually  see  her  when  I  go  up  there.  And 
two  or  three  times  I  have  stayed  to  tea.  Craig 
was  shocked  to  hear  it.  Are  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  No.  Why  should  I  be  ?  She  has  poured 
tea  for  me  there,  more  than  once.  I  don't  know 
how  in  the  world  she  picks  up  those  things.  I'm 


242  THE  PLATED   CITY 

sure  people  don't  have  afternoon  tea  in  the  French 
quarter  of  Quebec." 

"  We're  wandering  somewhat  from  the  ques 
tion  of  the  invitation,"  remarked  Lewis. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Miss  Thayer,  "  we  are 
just  reaching  the  solution  of  it.  I  didn't  know 
you  really  knew  Esther  Beaulieu.  Very  likely 
you  know  her  better  than  I.  Now  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  what  you  would  do  yourself  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  parallel  case,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  I 
should  ask  her,  if  it  were  I,  but  I  suspect  it  would 
be  partly  because  I  should  be  curious  to  see  what 
the  Plated  City  would  do  about  it.  The  spectacle 
of  High  and  Summit  Streets  brought  into  per 
sonal  contact  with  Miss  Esther  Beaulieu  would 
be  extremely  interesting." 

"But  aside  from  your  curiosity  as  an  observer?" 
put  in  Miss  Thayer. 

"  I  should  think  it  a  serious  ordeal  for  the  girl 
herself,"  replied  Lewis,  quietly.  "  Why  should  she 
be  made  to  face  the  Hill  set  in  that  way  ?  She  is 
happy  enough  as  she  is  —  if  it  were  not  for  her 
brother." 

"  But  you  would  give  her  the  opportunity  to  go, 
wouldn't  you  ?  You  would  leave  it  to  her  to 
decide.  I  don't  think  you  would  ostracize  her 
because  of  her  parentage  ?  "  She  spoke  with  girl 
ish  warmth. 

"No,"  said  Lewis,  "if  it  came  to  that,  I  belong 
on  James  Atwood's  side, " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  243 

"  So  do  I  !  "  cried  Sally  Thayer,  and  then  her 
voice  changed,  and  a  look  came  into  her  face  that 
confirmed  Lewis  in  his  old  opinion  that  Craig  was 
a  lucky  fellow.  "  It  is  to  be  my  wedding  day," 
she  said,  "  and  I  don't  wish  anybody  to  feel  dis 
appointed  or  unhappy.  I  can't  bear  to  have  any 
friends  of  mine  shut  out  of  any  chance  of  pleasure 
I  can  give  them  on  that  day.  So  will  you  tell  the 
committee  that  if  they  will  be  kind  enough  to  ask 
Esther  Beaulieu,  I  shall  be  most  grateful  ?  " 

After  Lewis  had  gone,  Miss  Thayer  still  lin 
gered  in  front  of  the  parlor  fireplace,  thinking  how 
different  was  the  lot  of  Esther  Beaulieu  from  her 
own.  She  half  regretted  that  she  had  ventured 
to  joke  with  her  in  girlish  fashion  that  afternoon, 
as  they  were  examining  the  trousseau.  "  Your 
time  may  come,"  she  had  said  laughingly,  but  a 
sudden  shyness,  almost  alarm,  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  Esther's  face.  The  proud,  sensitive,  lonely 
girl !  The  uncertainty  as  to  her  mother  was  in 
deed  her  fate,  as  Norman  Lewis  had  said.  No 
one  worthy  of  her  would  ever  dream  of  marry 
ing  her ;  and  to  the  imagination  of  Sally  Thayer, 
at  this  particular  juncture  of  her  life,  the  destiny 
of  all  people  who  either  were  not  or  did  not 
expect  to  be  happily  married,  seemed  a  trifle 
tragic.  She  wished  some  splendid  man,  like 
Norman  Lewis,  for  instance,  would  fall  in  love 
with  her.  Mr.  Lewis  really  seemed  interested 
in  the  girl :  perhaps  something  might  come  of  it 


244  THE  PLATED   CITY 

sometime  ? .  At  this  point  Sally  Thayer  laughed 
outright,  with  a  shake  of  her  square-set  shoulders. 
The  most  persistently  romantic  imagination  would 
be  rebuffed  at  the  difficulty  of  arranging  a  match 
like  that !  She  felt  positively  silly,  and  went  con 
tritely  enough  into  her  mother's  room,  to  read 
aloud  from  the  Missionary  Herald  until  she  should 
hear  Craig's  foot  upon  the  doorstep. 

As  for  Norman  Lewis,  trudging  up  High  Street 
to  give  his  report  to  the  house  committee,  his 
fancies  were  quite  untouched  by  any  matrimonial 
possibilities.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  engaged  in 
an  extremely  prosaic  calculation,  in  the  effort  to 
determine  whether  he  would  have  money  enough 
left  to  pay  for  the  wedding  present  he  had  selected 
for  Miss  Thayer,  after  sending  the  customary 
check  to  his  father.  This  month,  unfortunately, 
the  Lewis  Land  and  Irrigation  Co.  was  passing 
through  one  of  its  periodical  crises,  and  the  mar 
gin  in  Norman  Lewis's  check-book  was  a  very 
slender  one  indeed.  Previous  to  the  receipt  of 
the  last  letter  from  his  father  he  had  almost  de 
cided  to  magnify  his  office  of  best  man  by  order 
ing  a  new  dress  suit  for  the  occasion,  but  he  had 
now  been  forced  to  abandon  that  rash  project,  and 
felt  that  if  he  could  pay  for  his  wedding  present 
it  would  be  triumph  enough. 

The  house  committee  received  Miss  Thayer's 
message  with  respectful  acquiescence,  but  they 
were  immensely  relieved  three  days  later,  when 


THE  PLATED   CITY  245 

Dr.  Atwood's  coachman  left  at  the  club-house 
Esther  Beaulieu's  unconventionally  worded  re 
grets. 

Why  had  she  declined?  The  Doctor,  whose 
pleasure  at  her  receiving  an  invitation  had  been 
undisguised,  was  vexed  when  she  told  him  that 
she  could  not  think  of  going.  But  he  forebore 
to  press  the  matter,  and  contented  himself  with 
grumbling  in  a  general  way  against  the  fuss  and 
feathers  that  accompanied  a  marriage  ceremony. 
Norman  Lewis  dropped  in  at  Miss  Thayer's  again, 
to  tell  her  that  he  had  learned  from  the  house 
committee  that  Esther  Beaulieu  had  declined,  and 
they  both  agreed  that  it  had  been  perhaps  the 
very  best  turn  that  the  affair  could  have  taken. 
Had  the  girl,  by  virtue  of  the  subtle  instinct  that 
seemed  peculiar  to  her,  divined  that  the  bride's 
evening  would  be  happier  if  there  were  no  vexing 
social  question  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  Hill 
people  ?  Or  was  it  that  she  shrank  from  any  con 
test  for  recognition,  feeling  too  keenly  that  all  the 
odds  —  save  youth  and  beauty  and  the  Doctor's 
chivalrous  protection  —  were  against  her  ?  Did 
she  realize  at  last,  as  she  had  not  seemed  to  at  the 
outset  of  her  Bartonvale  experience,  the  ineradi 
cable  Anglo-Saxon  prejudice  against  that  pre 
sumptive,  though  not  yet  proven,  tinge  of  African 
blood  ?  Such  were  some  of  the  queries  that  Nor 
man  Lewis  put  to  himself,  after  his  second  inter 
view  with  Miss  Thayer. 


246  THE  PLATED   CITY 

In  reality,  though  none  of  the  motives  he  had 
guessed  at  were  altogether  absent  from  Esther 
Beaulieu's  mind,  her  foremost  reason  for  refusing 
the  invitation  was  her  wretched  anxiety  about 
Tom.  It  left  her  no  heart  for  making  any  social 
experiment  for  herself.  By  day  and  night  the 
ruin  of  his  fortunes  weighed  upon  her,  and  his 
letter  from  Boston,  received  but  the  fourth  day 
before  the  wedding,  confirmed  many  of  her  fears. 
He  had  been  drinking  :  there  was  nobody  to  care 
for  him  —  child  that  he  really  was  ;  no  one  to  give 
him  a  motive  for  respect.  Oh,  if  he  would  only 
come  back  to  her,  and  let  her  comfort  him,  and 
put  a  new  courage  into  his  simple  heart !  They 
could  talk  everything  over  together,  and  she  would 
summon  up  courage  and  ask  Dr.  Atwood's  counsel, 
and  something  could  surely  yet  be  done  !  She 
telegraphed  him,  at  the  hotel  where  he  had  writ 
ten  his  letter,  to  return  to  Bartonvale  without 
waiting  a  single  day  ;  but  the  days  went  by  and 
no  answer  from  him  came. 

She  tried,  too,  to  carry  out  his  directions  about 
seeing  Cyrus  Calhoun.  One  evening  when  the 
Doctor  thought  her  in  her  room  she  slipped  out  of 
the  house  and  down  the  Hill  to  the  huge  door  of 
the  machine  shops,  which  lay  close  beneath  the 
cliffs.  The  night  watchman,  wondering  who  she 
might  be,  told  her  that  Calhoun  was  not  doing 
extra  time  that  night,  for  work  had  been  slack  in 
the  roll-room.  If  she  would  come  back  Thursday 


THE  PLATED   CITY  247 

evening,  she  would  perhaps  find  him,  or  any  day 
in  the  daytime.  She  thanked  him,  and  fled  up 
the  Hill  again  unobserved,  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  making  known  even  to  the  Doctor  her 
endeavor  to  penetrate  the  mystery  that  seemed  to 
envelop  her  mother's  life  in  Bartonvale.  Thurs 
day  evening  was  the  wedding  !  It  would  be  easy 
to  take  advantage  of  the  Doctor's  absence  to  make 
another  visit  to  the  machine  shops.  How  fortu 
nate  she  was  in  having  decided  so  promptly  not 
to  go  with  him  to  the  Mattawanset  Club  ! 

Thursday  evening  came,  with  a  clear  sunset,  and 
sharply  denned  shadows  falling  from  the  Atwood 
pine  trees  far  upon  the  lawn,  and  a  cool,  steady 
breeze  blowing  down  the  river.  The  ceremony 
at  the  quiet  house  upon  the  Green  was  at  half- 
past  six.  An  hour  later  Dr.  Atwood,  with  a 
final  gruff  expression  of  regret  that  Esther  would 
not  accompany  him,  started  for  the  reception. 
The  orchestra  had  been  playing  there  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  already ;  Dr.  Atwood's  Welsh  domes 
tics,  with  the  coachman's  wife,  were  standing  out 
at  the  edge  of  the  garden  listening  to  it,  for  the 
Mattawanset  Club  was  scarcely  a  hundred  yards 
below  the  Doctor's  orchard.  The  windows  of  the 
house  were  wide  open,  and  Esther  Beaulieu,  wait 
ing  alone  in  the  old-fashioned  sitting-room  for  the 
dusk  to  gather,  was  listening  too.  The  pines 
began  to  murmur  as  the  breeze  increased,  and 
softened  the  piercing  rapture  of  the  violins  to 


248  THE  PLATED  CITY 

a  drowsy  sweetness,  like  dream  music.  Pierre 
Beaulieu's  daughter,  reclining  in  the  Doctor's  huge 
chair,  with  closed  eyes,  abandoned  herself  to  the 
languorous  rise  and  fall  of  the  melody.  Little  by 
little  she  grew  oblivious  of  the  staid  New  England 
room,  of  the  machine  shop  clanking  beneath  the 
Hill ;  her  purpose  for  that  hour  slipped  from  her 
like  a  robe.  She  was  pure  woman,  thrilling  to 
music.  Hush  !  Were  the  soughing  pines  masters 
in  the  strife  with  the  keen-voiced  violins  ?  Surely 
there  was  no  other  sound  now  than  their  hoarse 
somnolent  swaying.  Hush  !  Was  there  ?  Hark  ! 
Hear  it !  Hear  it !  The  clear,  mounting,  trium 
phant  notes  of  the  wedding  march  !  The  bride 
is  passing  slowly,  proudly,  up  the  steps  of  the 
club-house,  leaning  upon  her  husband's  arm.  The 
music  marches,  and  the  pines  march,  and  the  feet 
of  the  solitary  girl  in  the  old  Atwood  house  beat 
involuntarily  upon  the  floor.  The  shadows  are 
thick  in  the  prim  room  now,  and  beyond  the 
wide-opened  windows  there  is  nothing  to  be  dis 
cerned  but  the  sombre  row  of  pine  trees,  and 
between  their  tossing  branches,  the  darkening 
green  of  the  western  sky.  The  girl  is  alone  in 
the  dusk  with  the  music,  and  the  music  is  over 
mastering  her.  Hush !  Hush  !  It  is  ceasing 
again,  and  once  more  the  patient  pine  boughs  are 
carrying  all  the  tune.  Nay  !  It  is  but  a  moment's 
respite.  With  burst  on  burst  of  passionate 
ecstasy,  the  orchestra  dashes  into  a  waltz.  The 


THE  PLATED   CITY  249 

waves  of  rhythm-intoxicated  sound  sweep  over 
the  grim  pines  and  drown  their  murmur,  and 
beating  in  at  the  wide  windows,  flood  the  lonely 

room  where  Esther  Beaulieu  lies. 

****** 

That  sudden,  resistless  tide  bore  her  out  of  her 
self.  Obeying  some  imperious  instinct  of  youth, 
—  or  was  it  the  fire  lurking  in  an  alien  blood  ?  — 
the  girl  leaped  to  her  feet.  Her  limbs  trembled 
with  excitement  and  girlish  fear.  Pushing  back 
the  chairs  that  cumbered  the  centre  of  the  room, 
she  listened  a  moment,  waiting,  palpitating.  Then 
catching  up  her  gown  with  one  hand,  and  with 
her  other  arm  uplifted,  upborne  as  it  were  upon 
that  flood  of  sound,  she  began  to  dance. 

Slowly,  lightly,  she  moved,  with  head  thrown 
back  and  half-closed  eyelids,  her  lips  parted  as 
she  hearkened  to  the  undulating  tune.  Her 
maidenly,  stately  figure  swayed  like  a  tall  water- 
weed,  swept  hither  and  thither  by  an  incoming 
surge,  now  left  for  a  moment  to  float  dreamily  in 
the  transparent  depths,  then  caught  in  a  swirl 
that  tosses  it  back  and  forth  in  shadowy  circles, 
drawn  by  the  swift  fingers  of  the  tide.  Only  it 
was  a  woman  who  was  dancing,  and  every  throb 
of  the  yearning,  rioting  melody  played  into  an 
answering  pulsation  in  her  veins.  The  grave  self- 
repression,  the  severe  dignity,  beyond  her  years 
and  forced  upon  her  by  the  tragic  isolation  of  her 
life  in  Bartonvale,  seemed  in  this  passionate 


250  THE  PLATED   CITY 

moment  like  a  mask  that  had  been  flung  aside, 
and  faster  and  faster  the  girl  circled  through  the 
solitary  room,  her  outstretched  hand  waving 
ghostly  in  the  dusk,  her  dark  hair  shaken  loose, 
her  eyes  dilating  with  a  fever  of  delight.  Faster 
yet,  faster  yet  —  a  quick  inarticulate  cry  of 
rapture  burst  uncontrollably  from  her  lips  — 
and  then  the  music  sank  suddenly,  as  if  its  spell 
was  broken.  The  girl  arrested  herself  in  mid- 
flight,  and  stood  panting.  Outside,  the  pines 
began  to  rustle  in  the  wind ;  the  stars  were  shin 
ing  over  their  topmost  branches.  Then,  above 
the  rustling  of  the  pines,  came  the  monotonous 
clink,  clank,  from  the  steam  hammer  of  the 
machine  shops. 

Esther  Beaulieu  flung  herself  into  the  Doctor's 
chair,  and  pressed  her  hot  palms  against  her  tem 
ples,  in  an  agony  of  remorse.  How  could  she  have 
forgotten!  She  had  neglected  her  task,  her  duty 
to  Tom.  The  precious  hours  had  almost  slipped 
by.  And  she  had  been  dancing,  forgetful  of  her 
brother,  forgetful  of  her  own  situation,  forgetful 
of  everything  except  the  sheer  pleasure  of  the 
moment.  Oh,  how  could  she  have  been  such  a 
child! 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  catching  her  heavy 
hair  into  a  quick  knot,  groped  around  the  dark 
room  for  her  wrap.  Then  she  darted  from  the 
house  and  across  the  lawn,  following  a  footpath 
that  led  to  the  lower  town. 


251 


In  five  minutes  she  reached  the  great  door  of 
the  machine  shops.  No  one  noticed  her,  and  she 
stood  irresolute,  confused  by  the  strangeness  of 
the  scene.  At  her  right  a  dozen  workmen  were 
engaged  in  hoisting  a  huge  casting  from  its  bed, 
the  electric  light  throwing  among  their  figures 
bars  of  sharp  shadow  from  the  giant  crane  above 
them.  At  her  left,  and  stretching  away  in  con 
fused  vistas  in  front  of  her,  were  the  great  ma 
chines  that  bored,  and  planed,  and  sawed  cold 
steel  as  if  it  were  so  much  whitewood,  most  of 
them  motionless  now,  like  sleeping  mammoths. 
But  overhead  there  was  the  ceaseless  whir  of 
revolving  shafts,  and  the  soft  slap-slap  of  flying 
belting.  The  motion,  and  the  noise,  the  dazzling 
lights  and  looming  shadows  of  the  immense  room 
startled  the  girl,  and  she  was  relieved  when  the 
night  watchman  came  toward  her,  touching  his 
cap. 

"  Was  it  you  who  wanted  to  see  Calhoun  ?  "  he 
asked,  studying  her  ^curiously.  "  Come  right  this 
way.  Don't  get  your  dress  caught." 

Holding  her  gown  close  to  her,  she  followed 
him  through  mazes  of  machinery,  past  open  spaces 
where  moulders  knelt  over  boxes  of  wet  sand,  and 
helpers,  naked  to  the  waist,  hurried  to  and  fro 
with  buckets  of  molten  metal,  until  she  reached 
the  roll-room.  The  rolls  lay  in  long  lines,  like 
cannon,  some  of  them  still  rough  from  the  cast 
ing-pit,  others  polished  to  a  satin  finish.  Upon 


252  THE  PLATED   CITY 

half  a  dozen  of  the  gigantic  lathes  unfinished 
rolls  were  slowly  revolving,  while  the  bright 
metallic  shavings  fell  curling  to  the  floor,  be 
neath  the  steady  paring  of  the  tool.  Over  one 
of  the  lathes  half-way  down  the  line  bent  a 
workman.  The  night  watchman  said  :  — 

"  There's  the  man  you're  looking  for,  miss," 
and  turned  somewhat  reluctantly  away. 

The  gray-haired  negro,  engaged  in  scanning  the 
glistening  surface  of  his  roll,  by  the  aid  of  a  gas- 
jet  attached  to  a  rubber  tubing,  looked  up  in  sur 
prise  as  she  approached. 

"  Good  evening,  Deacon  Calhoun,"  she  said,  and 
the  flattered  negro  bowed  respectfully.  Then  he 
pushed  his  spectacles  higher  upon  his  nose,  and 
recognizing  Esther  Beaulieu, — 

"  Good  evenin',  ma'am,"  he  answered.  "  It's  a 
long  time  since  I've  seen  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  she. 

"  Livin'  up  to  Dr.  Atwood's  now,  ain't  you  ?  " 
She  nodded. 

"  Like  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "Dr.  Atwood  has  been 
very  kind  to  me." 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  said  Cyrus  Calhoun.  "  Mis'  Cal 
houn  was  sayin'  only  yesterday  that  she  thought 
likely  you  was  gettin'  stuck  up  now  from  livin' 
over  among  the  Hill  folks,  but  I  said  I  guessed 
not.  Le'  see,  it's  mos'  a  yea-r,  ain't  it,  since  you 
come  to  our  house  with  Tom?  That  was  las' 


THE  PLATED   CITY  253 

summer,  wa'n't  it,  or  was  it  two  years  ago  ?  The 
old  man's  gettin'  kin'  o'  forgetful."  He  chuckled. 

"  A  year  next  month,"  said  Esther  Beaulieu. 
She  found  it  painfully  hard  to  begin  her  errand. 

"What's  become  of  Tom?"  inquired  the  gar 
rulous  old  workman,  coming  back  from  an  in 
spection  of  the  farther  end  of  the  roll. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  her  voice  trem 
bling  a  little.  "  He  was  in  Boston  when  he  wrote 
to  me  the  last  time.  He  isn't  going  to  play  ball 
any  more.  I  hope  he  can  get  some  other  kind  of 
work.  Do  they  want  any  more  men  in  the  ma 
chine  shops  ? "  she  demanded,  with  a  sudden 
fancy  that  here  might  be  the  very  place  for 
Tom. 

"You'll  have  to  inquiah  of  the  fo'man,"  said 
Calhoun,  cautiously.  "  I  don'  ask  110  questions  : 
just  go  straight  along  ;  that's  the  way  I  do." 

"  How  much  do  you  earn  ?  "  she  said,  her  brain 
busy  with  a  computation. 

"Two  dollars  'n  forty  cents  a  day,"  was  the 
proud  answer.  "And  nights  when  I'm  a  mind 
to  work  from  six  to  ten,  I  get  a  dollar  'n  twenty 
cents  more.  Three-sixty's  pretty  good  for  an  ole 
nigger,  eh  ? "  He  laughed  a  coughing,  throaty 
laugh. 

"  Is  it  very  hard  work  ?  "  asked  Tom  Beaulieu's 
sister. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  That  machine  does  the  work- 
in',  and  I'm  just  the  boss.  Yes,  ma'am,  that's  it  ! 


254  THE  PLATED   CITY 

But  it  takes  an  awful  sight  of  'sperience.  If  you 
don't  keep  a  lookin'  out,  you  might  spile  a  roll." 
Again  he  peered  closely  along  the  glossy  steel, 
and  tried  the  diameter  with  delicate  touches  of 
the  calipers. 

Her  heart  sank.  "  Don't  you  think  Tom  could 
learn  ?  " 

"Tom?"  he  repeated,  with  another  throaty 
laugh,  "  Tom  Bowlyer  ?  Why,  bless  yo '  soul,  Tom 
ain't  got  any  mo'  mechanic  to  him  'n  a  chile. 
He  couldn't  learn  it  nohow." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  a  troubled  silence.  Her 
stolen  moments  were  going  fast,  and  still  she  had 
not  asked  the  questions  Tom  had  bidden  her. 

"  Deacon  Calhoun,"  she  found  courage  to  say 
at  last,  drawing  a  step  nearer  him,  "there  is 
something  that  Tom  and  I  want  very  much  to 
know.  Will  you  tell  me  all  you  remember  about 
my  mother  —  every  single  little  thing  ?  You  told 
Mr.  Lewis  once,  Mr.  Norman  Lewis,  and  he 
wrote  it  down  for  Tom,  but  people  won't  believe 
it.  Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  to  tell  me  every 
thing.  I  would  rather  know  —  even  if  she  wasn't 
a  good  woman.  I  must  know." 

The  intensity  of  her  tone  solemnized  him. 
"  Fore  de  Lord,  Miss  Bowlyer,"  he  broke  out,  "  I 
tole  Mistah  Lew's  the  livin'  trufe.  If  I'd  a  ben 
in  class-meetin ',  or  settin '  right  on  the  steps  in 
front  of  the  recordin'  angel,  I  couldn't  say  no 
mo'.  You  ask  Mistah  Lew's.  He'll  tell  you." 


THE  PLATED    CITY  255 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't  ask  Mr.  Lewis," 
she  insisted.  "  I  must  hear  it  from  your  own  lips. 
Begin  with  the  first  day  you  saw  my  mother,  and 
tell  me  how  she  looked,  and  whether  —  whether 
the  colored  people  thought  she  was  colored  too  — 
and  where  she  said  she  came  from,  and  how  my 
father  came  to  marry  her,  and  — "  she  stopped, 
with  a  sort  of  sob  in  her  voice. 

Word  for  word  as  she  had  already  heard  from 
Tom  the  old  man's  story,  he  began.  As  he  grad 
ually  warmed  under  the  excitement  of  narration, 
there  were  plenty  of  episodes  and  discursive  obser 
vations  upon  the  men  and  manners  of  Bartonvale 
in  the  sixties  to  which  she  listened  with  ill-dis 
guised  impatience,  but  in  its  main  outlines  the 
deacon's  description  of  her  mother  coincided 
exactly  with  the  version  she  had  already  heard. 
There  was  nothing  new.  The  image  of  her 
mother  was  the  same  as  she  had  framed  it  in  her 
fancy  now  for  many  a  month  :  a  tall,  dark,  friend 
less  woman  from  the  South,  talking  vaguely  of  a 
husband  whom  no  one  much  believed  in,  ostracized 
and  feared  by  her  neighbors  in  the  poorest  quarter 
of  the  town,  married  at  last  to  a  drunken  French 
stonemason,  and  dying  not  many  years  thereafter, 
leaving  a  daughter  born  to  Pete  Beaulieu. 

Wait  !  There  was  just  one  thing  that  Esther 
Beaulieu  had  not  heard.  "And  I  forgot  to  say," 
the  old  man  was  adding  in  an  awestruck  voice, 
"  that  in  those  times  when  she  used  to  be  kin'  o' 


256  THE  PLATED   CITY 

out  of  her  head,  talkin'  wild  like,  —  that  was  before 
she  was  ever  married  to  yo'  papa,  —  she  used  to  say 
that  her  husband  lived  right  here  in  Bartonvale, 
and  that  she  had  come  on  to  find  him.  And  part 
of  the  time  she  said  that  he  was  dead,  died  way 
down  South.  It  didn't  hang  together;  I  s'pose 
that  was  why  it  was  crazy  talk  —  but  she  always 
used  to  say  that  her  husband's  name  was  Everett. 
Now  there  wa'n't  no  such  family  here.  She  was 
clean  out  of  her  head  those  days.  D'ye  see  ?  " 

Esther  nodded.  The  name  Everett  she  had 
surely  heard  before,  but  where,  she  could  not  in 
the  least  remember.  Tom  had  certainly  never 
told  her  about  any  name  —  simply  that  there 
were  times  when  their  mother  had  talked  crazily. 

"  Did  you  tell  Mr.  Lewis  this  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"Certain,  certain,"  said  Cyrus  Calhoun. 
"Come  to  think  of  it,  though,  I  don't  know's 
I  said  nothin'  about  the  name.  That  was  only 
when  she  was  wanderin,'  you  know.  There 
wa'n't  nothin'  to  that.  No,  I  guess  I  didn't  speak 
of  that  to  Mistah  Lew's.  He  just  wanted  to  know 
facts,  you  see  ;  he  don't  care  about  what  your 
mother  made  up  all  out  of  her  own  head.  'Tell 
you,  Mistah  Lew's  talked  mighty  sharp  to  me  one 
while.  'Feared  like  he  thought  I  was  tryin'  to 
lie  to  him.  '  I'm  a  deacon  in  the  Zion  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,'  says  I,  '  'n  a  class-leader  for 
mo'n  twenty  years.  What  should  I  lie  for  ?  '  says 
I.  He  just  laughed  ;  he  didn't  have  nothin'  to 


THE  PLATED   CITY  257 

say  to  that.  I  'spose  these  lawyers  try  to  frighten 
some  folks  on  purpose,  but  I  guess  Mistah  Lew's 
bark  worse'n  his  bite." 

"  Very  likely,"  responded  the  girl.  "  And  there 
isn't  anything  else  you  can  remember,  Deacon  Cal- 
houn  ?  Not  anything  at  all  ?  " 

The  nine  o'clock  down  train  thundered  past 
beneath  the  windows  of  the  roll-room,  whistling 
for  the  Main  Street  crossing.  It  was  the  train 
that  was  to  bear  the  bridal  couple  away  from 
Bartonvale. 

"No,  Miss  Bowlyer,"  said  the  grizzled  mechanic 
as  the  windows  ceased  clattering,  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  I  toF  yo'u  some  of  it  twice  over  now. 
But  I'm  kind  o'  sorry  for  you.  I'm  powerful 
sorry,  'n  so's  Mis'  Calhoun.  There  can't  nobody 
make  her  believe  but  what  yo'  mother  was  white. 
If  you  only  knew  for  certain,  though,  whether  you 
was  colored  or  whether  you  wan't  colored,  I  'spose 
you'd  be  kind  o'  mo'  settled  in  yo'  mind.  But 
de  Lord  Almighty  He  don't  recognize  no  differ 
ence,  Miss  Bowlyer.  I  'spects  the  everlastin' 
glory  shinin'  so  full  in  His  face  that  he  can't  tell 
black  from  white,  nohow.  Yo'  want  to  put  yo' 
trust  in  Him,  and  never  be  confounded." 

He  went  with  her  to  the  door  of  the  roll-room, 
his  fervid  old  lips  mumbling  fragments  from  the 
Psalms.  The  night  watchman  was  lingering  near 
by,  and  gallantly  escorted  her  out  through  the 
foundry,  stopping  to  call  her  attention  to  the 


258  THE  PLATED   CITY 

dazzling  stream  of  molten  iron  that  was  spurting 
from  one  of  the  huge  cupolas.  Women  never 
failed  to  admire  it.  But  Esther  Beaulieu's  mind 
was  elsewhere. 

As  they  reached  the  outer  door,  an  electric  bell 
buzzed  sharply  among  the  shadowy  timbers  of  the 
roof,  and  the  watchman  turned,  with  an  exclama 
tion.  The  moulders  heard  it,  also,  and  started  to 
their  feet.  Outside  a  bell  struck  too,  the  big  bell 
on  the  town-hall.  People  on  the  sidewalk  stopped 
to  count. 

"Thirteen  — two."  That  was  it.  "Thirteen 
—  two."  There  was  a  cry  of  "Fire  "far  away. 
"  Where's  thirteen  — two  ?  "  called  some  one. 

"  Plate  shop  up  the  river,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Oh,  up  the  river,"  was  the  reply,  and  the  man 
sauntered  on  down  town. 

The  big  bell  struck  again.  That  meant  every 
engine  out,  and  every  volunteer  hose  company 
besides.  As  Esther  Beaulieu  hastened  up  the 
Hill,  some  of  the  volunteers  overtook  her,  putting 
on  their  helmets  as  they  ran,  and  the  gray  horses 
of  No.  2  plunged  past  her,  with  the  engine  trail 
ing  fire.  But  when  she  reached  the  At  wood  place, 
all  was  tranquil  as  she  had  left  it.  The  sounds 
of  the  orchestra  still  floated  through  the  windows 
of  the  dark  sitting-room,  and  the  Doctor  had  not 
yet  returned. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  259 


XIII 

NORMAN  LEWIS  heard  the  alarm,  at  the  instant 
that  he  swung  himself  off  the  steps  of  the  parlor 
car  whither  he  had  escorted  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig 
Kennedy.  Pushing  through  the  crowd  to  the  bag 
gage  car,  to  assure  himself  once  more  that  none  of 
Craig's  friends  had  decorated  the  bridal  trunk 
with  white  ribbons,  he  heard  the  baggage  master 
say  that  the  fire  was  already  breaking  through  the 
windows  of  the  new  plate  shops  as  the  train 
went  by. 

"  Whew  !  It'll  be  a  bad  one,  with  this  wind," 
said  some  one  on  the  platform,  and  then  the  train 
pulled  out  for  the  run  to  New  York.  Lewis  lifted 
his  hat,  as  the  parlor  car  glided  past  him,  but  Craig 
had  already  drawn  down  the  curtain  by  his  wife's 
seat.  For  a  moment  a  thrill  of  loneliness  shot 
through  the  best  man,  and  then  he  settled  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  started  at  top  speed  for  the 
scene  of  the  fire,  turning  up  the  collar  of  his  light 
overcoat  as  he  ran.  At  Main  Street  he  caught 
an  electric  car,  packed  with  men  bound  for  the  fire 
too,  and  for  three  blocks  they  raced  with  a  belated 
engine,  frightening  the  horses  with  derisive  cheers. 
A  block  south  of  the  new  plate  works  a  hose  pipe 
lay  across  the  track,  and  the  men  jumped  from  the 


260 


car  and  hurried  forward.  The  shops,  the  largest 
in  town  save  Dr.  Atwood's,  a  half-mile  farther 
down  the  river,  were  blazing  from  end  to  end, 
fanned  by  the  steady  north  wind.  Drawn  up  on 
the  west  side  were  the  four  engines,  the  boast  of 
the  Plated  City,  playing  manfully  upon  the  flames, 
but  to  little  purpose.  Five  minutes  after  Norman 
Lewis  reached  the  scene,  the  chief  called  the  en 
gines  off,  to  direct  all  their  efforts  toward  saving 
the  rubber  works  on  the  south.  Here  the  volun 
teer  hose  companies  had  been  already  at  work, 
drenching  the  roof  and  north  wall,  and  skylarking 
with  the  mill  girls,  who  were  fast  gathering  from 
the  tenements  near  by.  All  of  a  sudden  the  four 
engines  clattered  down  the  street,  wheeled,  and 
joined  the  volunteer  companies.  That  meant  that 
the  best  was  to  be  made  of  a  bad  matter,  and  that 
the  plate  shops  were  already  doomed. 

Just  then,  pattering  in  from  a  side  street  that 
led  off  toward  the  Hill,  trotted  a  straggling  line 
of  twenty,  forty,  threescore  men  in  evening  dress. 
At  the  Mattawanset  Club  people  had  stopped  mid 
way  in  the  waltz,  begun  just  after  the  withdrawal 
of  the  bridal  pair,  to  count  the  strokes  of  the  town- 
hall  bell, 

"  Thirteen— two  !     Thirteen— two  !  " 

"  That  means  us  !  "  gasped  one  of  the  owners 

of  the  works,  bowing  to  his  partner,  and  dashing 

from  the  room.     Plated  City  boys  never  outgrew 

their  passion  for  "running  with  the  engine,"  and 


THE  PLATED   CITY  261 

one  of  the  hose  companies  was  made  up  from  the 
most  exclusive  circles  of  the  Hill.  There  was 
scarcely  a  man  in  the  club-house,  too,  who  did  not 
have  money  interests  at  stake  in  the  manufactur 
ing  quarter  of  the  town.  In  two  minutes  the 
imported  orchestra  was  left  to  play  away  to  an 
empty  ball-room,  while  the  women  crowded  for 
places  at  the  north  windows  of  the  club-house,  or 
streamed  out,  two  by  two,  upon  the  lawn.  The 
fire  was  in  plain  view,  away  down  there  by  the 
river,  and  the  tap,  tap,  of  the  line  of  running  men 
grew  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance. 

Down  in  the  trampled  yard  of  the  rubber  mill, 
the  advent  of  the  "swells"  was  received  with  im 
mense  enthusiasm.  The  mill  girls  waved  their 
handkerchiefs,  and  the  small  boys  hurrahed  as  the 
men  with  the  white  shirt  fronts  sprang  for  the 
hose.  The  imitative  languor  and  cosmopolitan 
indifference  that  had  seemed  to  possess  the  gilded 
youth  of  the  Plated  City  at  the  club-house  had 
wholly  disappeared.  They  were  Connecticut  boys 
now,  lighting  fire  with  a  shrewdness  and  energy 
and  daring  that  they  no  longer  had  the  good  man 
ners  to  conceal.  The  plating  had  been  scratched 
quite  off,  with  the  strokes  of  "Thirteen — two." 

Norman  Lewis,  astride  of  a  window  sill  in  the 
lower  story  of  the  mill,  trying  desperately  to  drag 
a  hose  inside,  looked  up  to  find  Whitesyde  Trellys 
ordering  some  mill  girls  out  of  the  way  with  most 
uriclerical  emphasis. 


262  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"Turn  the  hose  on  them,  then!"  yelled  the 
impassioned  rector  of  St.  Asaph's  ;  whereupon  the 
bevy  scattered,  and  Lewis  got  the  nozzle  directed 
at  a  flame  that  crept  along  the  rafters. 

"Thank  you,  Trellys,"  he  sang  out,  but  the 
rector  had  already  rushed  elsewhere. 

There  were  plenty  of  men  at  work  now ;  on  the 
roof,  covered  thick  with  blown  sparks  from  the 
falling  roof  of  the  plate  shops ;  and  all  down 
the  long  rooms  inside.  But  the  dry  rubber  dust 
was  everywhere,  on  rafters  and  window  sills  and 
benches  ;  it  blackened  the  hose,  and  smirched  the 
hands  and  cheeks  of  the  firemen,  who  stopped 
even  in  that  furious  struggle  to  dab  it  in  each 
other's  faces,  and  laugh  at  the  ruin  it  made  of  the 
immaculate  shirt  fronts  from  the  Mattawanset 
Club.  But  at  last,  as  the  air  within  the  mill 
grew  hotter  and  hotter,  the  black  dust  seemed  to 
blaze  out  everywhere  at  once :  the  sudden  flame 
ran  along  the  ceiling  and  walls  and  floors  as  if 
the  whole  interior  had  been  a  trap,  waiting  to  be 
sprung.  The  very  air  seemed  on  fire,  and  the 
men  jumped  from  the  windows,  and  crawled  out 
through  the  doors,  singed  and  terrified. 

The  chief  of  the  fire  department,  after  a  hurried 
consultation  with  two  or  three  leading  manufact 
urers,  among  them  Dr.  Atwood,  who  had  hurried 
down  from  the  Club  not  far  behind  the  younger 
men,  again  changed  his  base  of  operations. 

The  engines  were  sent  galloping  down  to  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  263 

machine  shops,  the  next  group  of  buildings  to  the 
south.  Already  their  long  straggling  roof  was 
ablaze  in  a  dozen  places,  and  still  the  north  wind 
blew  as  if  that  clear  June  night  were  in  mid- 
November,  and  the  firemen,  looking  southward, 
shook  their  heads. 

Foot  by  foot  the  great  machine  shops  were  bat 
tled  for,  with  a  swift  and  desperate  energy  une 
qualled  in  the  annals  of  Bartonvale,  but  foot  by 
foot,  and  moment  by  moment,  the  fire  won.  The 
roll-room  went  first,  the  lathe  which  the  frightened 
Cyrus  Calhoun  had  abandoned  still  turning  stead 
ily  amid  the  red  roar  until  the  falling  girders 
brought  the  shafting  down.  The  abandoned  en 
gines,  at  the  south  end  of  the  works,  toiled  blindly 
on  as  before,  and  here  and  there  the  inexorable 
machines,  forsaken  by  their  tenders,  still  pared 
away  the  steel,  while  the  disordered  belting 
writhed  fantastically  in  the  rolling  smoke.  Over 
the  dim  spaces  where  the  moulders  had  wrought 
and  the  fresh  castings  were  still  hissing  in  the 
sand,  was  woven  a  swift  canopy  of  flame,  and  the 
drifting  sparks  fell  fast  upon  the  huge  cupolas 
where  the  white-hot  metal  bubbled  angrily,  wait 
ing  for  the  pourers  to  return.  But  pourers  and 
moulders  and  machinists  had  fled. 

Sullenly  the  firemen,  and  the  grimy  volunteers 
from  the  Hill,  fell  back.  It  was  no  use.  If  half 
the  engines  in  Connecticut  were  drawn  up  there 
on  the  river  bank,  how  could  they  fight  this  wind  ? 


264  THE  PLATED   CITY 

More  and  more  keenly  it  blew;  it  swept  the  sparks 
from  the  machine  shops  up,  up  in  revolving  circles 
toward  the  firelit  sky,  and  then  wafted  them 
steadily  southward  toward  the  Flats. 

To  Esther  Beaulieu,  standing  on  the  verge  of 
the  Atwood  lawn,  above  the  cliffs,  the  valley  occu 
pied  by  the  machine  shops  and  the  sheds  and  fac 
tories  beyond  them,  seemed  a  roaring  pit  of  flame. 
For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  had  had  a  terrible 
anxiety  for  the  Atwood  place  itself,  but  the  fire 
had  already  coursed  past  it  down  the  valley,  and 
High  and  Summit  Streets,  and  all  the  old  part  of 
the  town  bordering  on  the  Green  seemed  safe 
enough.  But  the  Doctor's  plate  works,  and  in 
deed  most  of  the  business  quarter  of  the  Plated 
City,  lay  straight  in  the  path  of  the  conflagration. 
Everywhere  out  over  the  Flats,  and  along  the 
hillsides  of  the  tenement  districts,  she  could  see 
lights  flashing  hither  and  thither,  and  could  catch 
the  vibration  of  terrified  human  cries  above  all 
the  voices  of  the  fiery  gulf  beneath  her.  But  it 
was  not  necessary  to  stand  on  the  high  wind 
swept  lawn  of  the  Atwood  place  to  see  how  the 
fire  was  going.  The  chief,  shouting  hoarse  orders 
down  there  on  the  river  bank,  knew  when  he  was 
beaten. 

"We'll  have  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  cried. 
"  We've  got  to  stop  it  at  the  Neck,  or  the  whole 
Flats'll  go.  I  guess  we  can  do  it.  There'll  be 
help  here  in  twenty  minutes  !  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  265 

In  truth,  when  he  had  seen  the  rubber  mill 
flame  up  with  that  strange  explosion,  the  chief 
had  telegraphed  down  the  river  for  more  engines, 
and  by  massing  them  at  the  Neck  he  thought 
there  might  still  be  a  chance.  The  wide  empty 
freight  yard  would  help  them  there,  as  well  as 
the  bend  in  the  river,  which  gave  the  Neck  its 
name.  The  straggling  masses  of  buildings  above 
the  Neck,  now  burning  all  along  their  northern 
border,  converged  here  to  a  narrow  wedge,  headed 
by  a  gaunt  wooden  warehouse  that  fronted  upon 
River  Street.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
there  were  warehouses  again,  but,  fortunately, 
with  blind  brick  walls  to  the  northward,  and  roofs 
that  were  supposed  to  be  fireproof.  If  it  were 
still  possible  for  pluck  and  skill  to  head  off  the 
conflagration,  the  fight  must  be  waged  at  the 
Neck.  If  that  narrow  wedge  of  old  buildings 
could  be  broken  down,  there  was  a  bare  chance 
that  the  fire  might  flare  itself  out  between  the 
Mattawanset  and  the  empty  freight  yards,  and 
that  everything  south  of  River  Street  might  yet 
be  saved.  If  only  the  wind  were  not  blowing  ! 

Toward  the  Neck,  then,  were  lashed  the  fright 
ened  engine  horses,  for  a  final  stand;  toward  the 
Neck  retreated  the  exhausted  volunteer  companies, 
dragging  the  trailing  lengths  of  blackened  hose. 
The  south  sidewalk  of  River  Street  was  packed 
thick  with  Plated  City  people,  of  every  station,  from 
Dr.  James  Atwood,  dizzy  with  excitement,  to  Mag 


266 


Fennessey,  whom  Esther  Beaulieu  had  robbed  of 
her  daily  bread.  Suddenly  a  great  cheer  ran  along 
the  sidewalk;  fresh  engines  were  at  hand  from 
the  towns  a  few  miles  down  the  river:  they  rat 
tled  down  River  Street,  four,  five,  six  of  them,  the 
men  jumping  to  their  stations  before  the  horses 
could  be  pulled  to  a  halt.  Hurrah !  Hurrah ! ! 
The  ancient  antagonisms  of  the  Valley  fire  com 
panies  were  forgotten  in  this  crisis,  and  the  Plated 
City  people  cheered  and  cheered.  And  there  was 
other  help  at  hand.  The  north-bound  train  had 
steamed  cautiously  into  the  yard,  its  progress  up 
the  Valley  blocked  by  the  fallen  walls  of  the 
machine  shops.  The  passengers  swarmed  out 
upon  the  tracks,  and  ran  toward  River  Street 
across  the  freight  yard.  Foremost  of  the  runners 
was  a  man  who  had  been  crouching  morosely  in  a 
corner  of  the  smoker,  a  long-visored  ball-player's 
cap  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  had  sprung 
up  excitedly  as  the  glare  from  the  fire  smote  into 
the  car,  and  now,  heading  the  crowd,  he  leaped 
like  a  deer  across  the  gleaming  rails  of  the  freight 
yard,  and  vaulted  the  fence  into  River  Street. 
In  another  moment  he  was  in  the  thick  of  a 
group  of  hook-and-ladder  men,  working  like  a 
madman. 

At  that  instant  the  chief  turned  to  one  of  his 
foreman.  "  We  ain't  going  to  make  it,  Jack,"  he 
muttered,  "  unless  we  can  get  this  line  of  buildings 
down.  Water  won't  help  us.  There  ain't  a  dyna- 


267 


mite  cartridge  in  town,  either.  Break  open  that 
hardware  store,  and  get  some  more  axes  for  the 
boys  !  We  can  pull  the  sheds  down,  anyway  !  " 

The  hardware  store  was  dashed  open,  and  a 
score  of  axes  dealt  among  the  volunteers.  The 
man  with  the  long-visored  cap  secured  one,  and 
bounded  off  for  the  line  of  sheds  behind  the  ware 
house.  As  its  path  grew  narrower,  all  the  more 
fiercely  roared  the  fiery  storm.  Its  wind-tossed 
tongues  leaped  toward  the  Neck  like  the  flames  of 
a  giant  blowpipe.  Brick  and  stone  were  shrivel 
ling  before  it,  and  what  was  a  line  of  wooden  sheds, 
and  an  oaken-timbered  warehouse  ? 

But  furiously  fell  the  axe  strokes,  nevertheless, 
and  one  by  one  the  sheds  were  pushed  over,  and 
the  debris  drenched  with  water  from  a  dozen 
streams.  The  gaunt  warehouse,  erected  before 
the  era  of  cheap  building  reached  the  Plated  City, 
still  resisted  the  unskilful  blows  that  hailed 
against  it.  The  sheathing  was  stripped  from  the 
lower  story,  but  the  white-oak  beams  stood  firm. 
Already  the  rolling  wave  of  fire  halted  above  the 
flattened  sheds;  its  red  crest  shook  impotently  in 
the  wind;  its  base  crept  forward  over  the  debris, 
licking,  drying,  devouring;  then  came  a  drift  of 
smoke,  and  the  billow  of  flame  had  flung  itself 
over  the  empty  space  and  the  back  and  sides  of 
the  warehouse  were  all  afire.  The  front  was  still 
intact.  In  the  projecting  peak  of  the  gable  swung 
a  rusty  iron  tackle  block,  whose  years  of  service 


268 


were  long  past.  A  stream  of  water,  aimed  by  one 
of  the  sullenly  retreating  firemen,  struck  the  block, 
and  it  grated  harshly  as  it  swung.  Along  the 
steep  roof  the  flame  swept  triumphantly :  through 
the  empty  garret  from  north  to  south  it  poured, 
and  broke  out  with  malicious  flashes  from  the 
round  windows  in  the  front  gables.  The  heat 
grew  unendurable.  The  crowd  in  River  Street 
fell  back  to  east  and  west,  and  the  engines 
trotted  off  dispiritedly  to  flank  the  fire  in  case  it 
should  spread  to  the  upper  town. 

The  Flats  were  doomed.  Already  the  flames, 
towering  above  the  warehouse,  curled  over  toward 
the  blank  walls  beyond  the  street,  and  tossed  huge 
sparks  upon  the  flimsy  patent  roofings,  like  spray 
blown  from  an  oncoming  breaker. 

In  the  deserted  street  before  the  warehouse,  only 
a  half-dozen  firemen  remained,  led  by  the  man  in 
the  long-visored  cap.  He  held  the  slender  stream 
of  a  hose  pipe  steadily  against  the  overhanging 
peak,  and  laughed  recklessly  over  his  momentary 
victory.  It  was  utter  folly,  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  careless  hardihood  that  made  the  other 
men  linger  by  the  side  of  this  unrecognized  volun 
teer.  They  were  dangerously  near  the  building, 
the  heat  blistered  their  hands  and  faces,  the  crowd 
at  either  side  shouted  to  them  to  give  it  up.  But 
still  they  tarried,  while  the  warehouse  loomed 
above  them,  its  gaunt  ribs  stripped  of  their  cover 
ing  and  sloping  black  to  the  ridgepole  amid  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  269 

seething  flame,  the  fire  darting  from  the  two  eye 
holes  in  the  gable,  while  the  triangular  peak, 
sheathed  in  reddening  iron,  was  poised  fearfully, 
like  the  beak  of  a  huge  fire-dragon,  swaying  above 
its  prey. 

"  Look  out !  "  screamed  Norman  Lewis,  from  the 
edge  of  the  crowd.  "  Look  out  !  "  echoed  White- 
syde  Trellys. 

The  dragon  lunged  forward,  as  if  its  limbs 
suddenly  gave  way.  But  the  cumbrous  blow  fell 
short ;  the  creature  hung  there  upon  its  knees, 
half  fallen,  wrapped  in  flame.  The  firemen  had 
leaped  back,  all  but  one.  The  man  with  the  ball 
player's  cap  stirred  not  a  foot.  With  one  hand 
still  on  the  nozzle  of  the  hose,  he  turned  toward 
his  companions. 

"  Come  back !  "  he  cried  with  a  boyish  laugh 
that  woke  the  memories  of  the  men  swarming 
there  upon  the  scorching  street.  "  Come  on,  and 
put  out  this  fire  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  somebody,  "  that's  Tom 
Beaulieu  !  "  And  it  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
among  the  awestruck  crowd  :  — 

"  That's  Tom  Beaulieu  !  " 

The  man  pulled  off  his  visored  cap,  and  waved 
it.  His  face  gleamed  pallid  in  the  white-hot  light. 

"  Yes,  it's  Tom  Beaulieu  !  "  he  cried.  "  I'm  all 
right  !  Ain't  I  ?  Come  on  !  Say,  you  fellows 
aren't  afraid  of  the  color  line,  are  you  ?  " 

As  that  scornful  cry  escaped  his  lips,  the  top- 


270  THE  PLATED   CITY 

pling  mass  above  him,  with  a  last  malevolent  effort, 
swung  screeching  forward,  and  the  iron-sheathed 
beak  of  the  monster  smote  him  down. 

A  hundred  men  darted  from  the  crowd  to  res 
cue  Tom  Beaulieu,  and  strangely  assorted  were 
the  hands  that  bore  him  down  the  street  toward 
the  river.  They  laid  him  with  his  head  upon  the 
curbing,  and  Mike  Fennessey  was  the  first  man  to 
say  a  word. 

"  There  ain't  a  hospital  nor  a  place  in  this  whole 
dommed  town,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  "  where  you 
can  take  a  workin'  man  to  die  dacint." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  swear,  just  now,"  said 
Whitesyde  Trellys,  who  was  kneeling  on  the  other 
side  of  the  prostrate  figure. 

"  He's  right  about  it  though,  Trellys,"  said  James 
Atwood,  in  a  shaking  voice.  "  There  isn't.  Men, 
I  want  some  of  you  to  carry  Beaulieu  up  to  my 
house.  Lewis,  you  see  to  it,  will  you?  Mr. 
Trellys,  I  guess  you'd  better  come  right  up  with 
me  ;  you're  her  minister,  you  know." 

With  one  troubled  look  toward  the  Flats,  where 
his  plate  shops  were  already  half  engulfed  in  the 
smoke  that  blew  before  the  widening  line  of  fire, 
Dr.  Atwood  hurried  up  the  Hill. 

Not  many  minutes  afterward,  the  ball-player 
passed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  through  the 
gates  of  the  old  Atwood  place,  borne  feet  first, 
and  with  a  hole  in  his  temple. 


THE  PLATED   CITY 


XIV 

HOUR  after  hour  the  ball-player  lay  unconscious 
in  the  guest  chamber  of  the  Atwood  house.  From 
time  to  time  his  curly  black  head  moved  rest 
lessly  upon  the  pillow,  or  a  moan  escaped  his  sat 
urnine  lips,  but  the  dark  eyes  did  not  open. 
Esther  hovered  wistfully  about  the  bedside,  and 
tried  to  recall  some  of  the  sacred  words  of  conso 
lation  which  Mr.  Trellys  had  whispered  to  her,  as 
the  workmen  brought  Tom  in.  Norman  Lewis 
had  spoken  to  her  too.  "You  must  keep  up 
your  courage,"  he  had  said ;  and  at  the  time 
the  firm  notes  of  the  man's  voice  had  vibrated 
more  deeply  within  her  than  the  murmured  words 
of  the  priest.  But  she  had  need  of  every  fortify 
ing  energy,  human  or  divine,  as  the  hours  crept 
by,  and  her  brother  lay  there  inert,  but  surely 
suffering. 

Dr.  Atwood  watched  her  affectionately,  though 
he  scarcely  spoke.  He  followed  with  the  keenest 
interest  the  efforts  made  by  the  best  physician  of 
Bartonvale  to  determine  the  extent  of  the  injury 
to  the  wounded  brain.  With  a  sort  of  reawaken 
ing  of  his  own  former  professional  activities,  he 
pulled  down  his  old  books  on  surgery,  and  con- 


272  THE  PLATED   CITY 

suited,  in  technical  phrases  that  came  as  yet  halt 
ingly  to  his  lips,  with  the  younger  man.  The 
reaction  from  the  excitement  of  the  fire  seemed  to 
have  left  him  torpid  upon  those  sides  of  his  nature 
which  for  twenty-five  years  had  made  him  a 
leader  in  the  Plated  City.  He  seemed  less  inter 
ested  in  the  burned  district  of  Barton  vale  'than  in 
the  crushed  temple  of  Tom  Beaulieu.  He  drove 
down  town,  indeed,  the  morning  after  the  con 
flagration,  and  joined  the  throng  of  sightseers 
from  up  and  down  the  Mattawanset  Valley,  who 
were  staring  at  the  acres  of  smoking  ashes.  No 
one  could  say  that  the  Plated  City  lacked  nerve. 
All  over  the  burned  district,  on  stakes  hurriedly 
thrust  into  the  blackened  ruins,  there  were  posted 
placards  vying  with  one  another  in  grim  humor 
and  cool  audacity  :  "  This  shop  closed  for  repairs  " 
—  "  Positively  no  admittance  "  —  "  Gone  to  the 
Ball  Game" — "Removed  temporarily  to  Nigger 
Hill "  —  "  We  were  fully  insured  "  —  "  One  month 
from  date  Messrs.  Blank  and  Blank  will  reoccupy 
this  site.  Stores  for  rent  in  their  new  block. 
Apply  now."  In  a  shed  on  the  river  bank  a  firm 
from  the  next  town  below  was  taking  orders  for 
building-materials.  A  half-dozen  surveyors  were 
waiting  for  the  ruins  to  get  cold  enough  to  allow 
them  to  re-survey  old  lines.  The  Bank  block  had 
escaped  the  flames,  and  both  banks,  opened  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual,  were  crowded  with  bor 
rowers,  offering  insurance  policies  as  collateral. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  273 

Young  fellows  who  had  been  too  languid  to  dance 
at  the  Club  reception  the  night  before,  but  who 
had  fought  fire  till  daybreak,  were  down  town  at 
eight  o'clock,  making  shrewd  contracts  and  joking 
all  the  while.  A  special  meeting  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  was  called  for  ten  o'clock.  The  Plated 
City  proposed  to  show  to  Connecticut  and  the 
rest  of  the  universe  that  she  was  still  in  the 
game  ! 

It  stirred  the  blood  and  the  local  pride  of  Bar- 
tonvale  to  feverish  excitement.  But  Dr.  James 
Atwood  watched  the  bustle,  unmoved.  Over  on 
the  gray  and  black  Flats  towered  the  great  chim 
ney  of  his  Plate  Works,  the  sole  reminder  of  the 
"  plant "  which  it  had  taken  his  best  years  of 
manhood  to  establish.  Nowhere  on  that  smoking 
stretch  of  ground  was  there  to  be  seen  a  saucy 
placard  indicative  of  James  Atwood's  self-con 
fidence  and  pluck.  Rather  was  he  secretly  con 
scious  of  a  sensation  of  relief.  The  problem  of 
the  disposition  of  the  Plate  Works,  which  had 
weighed  upon  him  for  months,  had  been  solved 
easily  enough,  after  all,  by  the  pipe  of  a  careless 
workman  and  barely  three  hours  of  a  steady 
wind ! 

As  the  hour  struck  for  the  Board  of  Trade 
meeting,  Dr.  Atwood  turned  his  horses  toward 
the  Hill.  The  task  of  setting  the  Plated  City  on 
its  feet  again  he  proposed  to  leave  to  younger 
men.  He  had  served  his  turn.  At  the  corner 


274  THE  PLATED   CITY 

of  Main  Street  Norman  Lewis  ran  out  to  his  car 
riage.  "How's  Beaulieu?"  he  asked. 

"  No  change,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It's  a  curious 
case  of  fracture.  I'm  thinking  of  telegraphing  to 
New  York  for  Jedway,  this  afternoon." 

"  The  surgeon  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  and  I  studied  medicine  together 
thirty-five  years  ago.  I  should  rather  like  to  see 
Jedway.  We  used  to  be  great  friends.  He's  at 
the  top  of  the  profession  now,  while  Jim  Atwood's 
gone  over  to  Silver  Plate.  Yet  I  beat  him  in  the 
medical  school,"  continued  the  Doctor,  musingly. 

"I'll  run  up  this  evening,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  Well,  we  won't  have  to  look  for  a  purchaser  of 
the  Plate  Works  any  more  !  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  grimly.  "  But  I  suppose 
I  shall  have  some  things  to  talk  over  with  you, 
—  insurance,  you  know,  and  that  lease." 

Lewis  nodded.  "  I  have  piled  up  work  for  the 
next  six  months,  Doctor,  in  the  course  of  the  last 
two  hours.  '  It's  an  ill  wind  '  —  you  know.  By 
the  way,  don't  you  think  I  ought  to  telegraph 
Craig  to  come  back  ?  It's  the  chance  of  his  life, 
with  everybody  wanting  building  plans  at  once. 
I  can  certainly  catch  him  at  Pittsburg,  and  the 
Pacific  coast  can  wait." 

"  That's  a  good  idea,"  said  the  Doctor,  but  with 
out  much  enthusiasm.  "  Seems  a  pity  to  spoil  a 
wedding  trip,  though  !  Don't  you  suppose  Craig 
can  pick  up  enough  after  they  get  back  ?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  275 

"  That's  for  him  to  decide,"  replied  Lewis,  and 
the  Doctor  drove  on. 

By  noon,  Lewis  had  an  answer  to  his  carefully 
worded  telegram,  dated  at  Pittsburg.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Kennedy  had  left  New  York  without  looking 
at  the  morning  papers,  and  Lewis's  telegram  was 
the  first  information  that  reached  them  concern 
ing  the  great  fire. 

"  Can't  give  up  trip  for  ten  fires"  telegraphed 
Craig.  "Back  next  month.'''  Whereupon  his 
former  roommate  laughed,  and  liked  him  better 
than  ever. 

Early  that  evening  Dr.  Jedway  was  driven  up 
to  the  Atwood  place.  He  shook  hands  with  the 
local  practitioner  and  made  him  happy  by  pre 
tending  to  remember  him  as  a  student.  With 
what  seemed  to  Esther  unpardonable  deliberation, 
he  chatted  with  Dr.  Atwood  about  old  times. 
Finally  he  bent  over  Tom  Beaulieu,  probing,  tap 
ping  the  edges  of  the  wound  with  fingers  light  as  a 
woman's.  There  was  a  moment's  ominous  silence. 

"  You  were  quite  right,"  he  said,  nodding 
approval  at  the  young  Bartonvale  physician. 
"  Very  unusual  case  —  extremely  interesting.  It 
will  be  necessary  to  perform  the  operation  at 
once,  though  that  temperature  record  is  very 
much  against  us." 

The  younger  man  said  something  about  hav 
ing  seen  that  operation  successfully  performed  in 
Vienna. 


276  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Vienna,  eh  ?  Yes,  I  know.  Well,  we  don't 
make  so  much  fuss  about  it  this  side  of  the  water. 
But  we've  records  of  five  operations  to  their  one, 
nevertheless."  The  famous  specialist  chuckled,  as 
he  turned  to  his  instrument  case.  Dr.  Atwood 
watched  him  with  a  sort  of  envy.  To  be  the  head 
of  the  profession  in  New  York  ;  was  it  not  after 
all  an  achievement  more  to  be  proud  of  than  to  be 
the  late  owner  of  the  biggest  silver  plate  works 
in  Bartonvale  ? 

"  Now  let's  see,"  said  Jedway.  "  I  want  you," 
turning  to  the  young  physician,  "  to  be  ready  to 
help  me,  if  necessary.  I  must  have  somebody  to 
hold  the  patient's  head  steady.  It  will  take  but  a 
few  minutes.  Dr.  Atwood  —  no."  His  eyes  fell 
on  Esther  Beaulieu's  tall,  firm  figure  and  her 
grave  intelligent  face.  "This  young  woman 
would  do  better.  You  and  I  are  no  longer 
twenty -five,  Jim  ;"  and  he  placed  her  upon  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  laid  Tom's  head  in  her  lap, 
between  her  palms.  Then  he  moved  the  lamp 
nearer,  turned  back  his  cuffs  fastidiously,  and 
began. 

Dr.  James  Atwood,  standing  by  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  watched  in  silence.  The  surgeon's  close- 
cropped  gray  head,  silvery  in  the  lamplight,  hid 
the  features  of  the  wounded  man,  but  his  matted 
black  hair  was  visible,  parted  at  the  spot  where 
Jedway's  instrument  glinted.  Esther  Beaulieu's 
long  fingers  held  the  black  head  motionless.  The 


THE  PLATED   CITY  277 

muscles  of  her  arms  and  shoulders  were  rigid 
with  the  strain,  and  her  girlish  face,  its  heavy- 
lidded  eyes  intent  upon  every  motion  of  Jedway's 
fingers,  its  clear  olive  tint  transparent  in  the 
strong  light,  was  full  of  a  strange  sweetness, 
mingled  with  terror.  Gazing  at  her,  an  old 
memory  woke  suddenly  in  James  Atwood's  brain. 
Somewhere,  surely,  he  had  seen  that  sight  before  ; 
that  very  woman  bending  over  the  dark  head  of  a 
wounded  man,  with  terror  in  her  eyes,  while  the 
light  glistened  upon  a  surgeon's  knife.  Where 
had  it  been  ?  Oh,  of  course  !  It  had  been  down 
there  in  Louisiana  in  1863,  when  they  had  let  him 
through  the  Confederate  lines  in  search  of  Everett. 
It  all  came  back,  in  one  swift  rush  of  pain  ;  the 
wretched  negro  church  at  the  cross-roads,  turned 
into  a  field  hospital,  the  pine  torches  that  flickered 
over  the  ghastly  sights  upon  the  benches,  the  scent 
of  blood,  the  tall  distraught  woman  who  sat  on  the 
floor,  pillowing  Everett's  head  in  her  lap,  while  a 
Confederate  surgeon,  nerveless  through  exhaustion, 
was  probing  ineffectually  for  the  fatal  ball.  James 
Atwood's  ride  had  been  in  vain.  His  brother  was 
dead  an  hour  afterwards,  and  gossip  had  whis 
pered  to  the  Northerner  that  the  dark,  queenly 
woman  who  had  disappeared  at  daybreak  had 
been  Everett's  wife.  Oh,  that  the  keenness  of  that 
long-past  pain  and  shame  should  still  divide  his 
heart,  while  he  stood,  twenty-six  years  later,  in 
this  room  that  had  once  been  Everett's,  at  the  bed- 


THE  PLATED   CITY 

side  of  another  man,  with  Esther  Beaulieu  sitting 
there,  in  place  of  the  nameless  woman  !  He  closed 
his  eyes  an  instant,  and  when  he  opened  them, 
Jed  way  had  risen,  looking  grave. 

"  That's  all  that  can  be  done,  Atwood,"  said  he. 
"  It  was  deeper  than  I  thought."  And  in  answer 
to  a  mute  inquiry  of  Dr.  Atwood's  eyes,  the  sur 
geon  glanced  at  Esther  Beaulieu,  and  then  shook 
his  head. 

Dr.  Atwood  drove  him  down  to  the  nine  o'clock 
train,  and,  returning,  found  Norman  Lewis  in 
stalled  by  the  side  of  the  patient. 

"  We  persuaded  Miss  Beaulieu  to  lie  down  for 
two  or  three  hours,  at  least,"  said  Lewis.  "  The 
doctor  says  there's  absolutely  nothing  to  be  done, 
and  that's  something  that  I  can  do  as  well  as 
she.  You'd  better  go  to  bed  too,  Dr.  Atwood. 
There's  no  need  of  anybody  sitting  up  except 
myself." 

"  But  why  you,  more  than  anybody  else  ?  "  said 
James  Atwood.  "You've  had  a  harder  day 
than  I." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  Lewis.  "  I've  been 
renewing  my  youth.  And  besides,  Doctor,  it's 
lonelier  than  you  would  think  for  down  at  the 
Bank  block.  I  hate  to  .stay  there  to-night.  I 
didn't  suppose  I  should  miss  the  boy  so  much." 

"Will  he  come  back?"  asked  Dr.  Atwood. 
Lewis  repeated  the  words  of  Craig's  telegram. 
"  Good  for  him  !  "  muttered  the  old  gentleman. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  279 

"  I  wouldn't  if  it  were  I.  A  wedding  trip 
doesn't  come  every  day,  and  to  some  of  us  —  " 

"  Never,"  said  the  brown-bearded  man  by  the 
night-lamp. 

The  other  peered  at  him  over  his  spectacles. 
"Exactly,"  said  he.  "Good  night,  then,  Lewis, 
if  you  will  have  your  way."  And  he  went  down 
to  his  own  chamber  on  the  ground  floor,  his  per 
plexed  brain  haunted  again  and  again,  before  he 
sank  to  sleep,  by  that  group  of  figures  on  the 
floor  of  the  cross-roads  church  in  Louisiana. 

It  was  scarcely  more  than  ten  o'clock.  The 
lawyer  moistened  the  bandage  upon  Beaulieu's 
head  with  the  antiseptic  solution,  glanced  again  at 
the  physician's  written  directions  as  to  the  treat 
ment  to  be  followed  in  case  of  any  sudden  rise 
in  temperature,  and  then  settled  quietly  into  the 
depths  of  an  easy  chair.  He  had  gone  through  with 
enough  in  the  last  twenty -four  hours  to  leave  him 
physically  weary,  but  he  was  disinclined  to  sleep. 
For  a  while  he  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  ball-player's  face.  Poor  Tom  Beaulieu  !  They 
had  found  in  his  pocket  the  tattered  affidavit 
which  Lewis  himself  had  drawn  up,  and  with 
which  Tom  had  thought  to  establish  his  fantas 
tic  pretensions  to  equality.  Equality  !  what  an 
empty  phrase  it  was,  after  all  !  the  lawyer  re 
flected.  There  was  no  such  thing.  The  only 
equality  ever  dealt  out  to  Tom  Beaulieu  was 
given  him  by  the  iron-shod  peak  of  the  ware- 


280  THE  PLATED   CITY 

house  gable,  as  it  struck  him  down  to  that  dust 
where  all  at  last  must  lie.  The  sole  fraternity 
he  had  known  was  the  fellowship  of  pain,  and 
hour  by  hour  now  it  seemed  that  pain  was  fin 
ishing  its  initiatory  task,  and  that  the  bruised 
body  and  wounded  spirit  were  at  last  upon  the 
very  threshold  of  liberty.  Liberty,  fraternity, 
equality,  —  to  win  them  all,  in  an  instant,  by  a 
blow  upon  the  temple! 

Nor  did  it  seem  unlikely  to  the  lawyer  that 
Beaulieu's  recklessness  had  been  deliberate.  To 
linger  below  that  toppling,  crackling  mass  of 
timbers  had  looked  to  many  at  the  time  like 
suicidal  daring,  and  as  Lewis  sat  by  the  side 
of  the  ball-player,  he  found  himself  wondering 
whether  his  surmise  of  the  night  before  had  not 
been  correct.  He  recalled  what  Craig  had  said 
at  the  time  of  Tom's  departure  for  California 
about  his  secret  feeling  that  his  sister  would  be 
better  off  without  him.  If  that  thought  had 
influenced  him  then,  when  the  future  at  least 
looked  hopeful,  would  it  not  have  been  doubly 
operant  after  the  irrecoverable  failure  of  his  pro 
fessional  career?  Lewis  wondered  whether  any 
suspicion  of  this  had  crossed  the  sister's  mind. 
Certainly  all  she  knew  was  that  Tom  had  been 
hurt  while  fighting  the  fire ;  no  one  had  told 
her  that  he  had  courted  death.  It  was  better 
that  no  one  should  do  so,  and  after  all  perhaps 
there  had  been  nothing  more  in  Beaulieu's  ac- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  281 

tions  than  might  be  accounted  for  on  the  theory 
of  the  extreme  excitement  of  a  naturally  reckless 
nature,  under  the  deadly  fascination  of  an  im 
minent  danger.  That  was  the  more  natural  in 
terpretation  of  the  facts,  the  lawyer  endeavored 
to  convince  himself,  and  he  strove  to  put  the 
memory  of  Tom's  tragic  rashness  out  of  his 
mind. 

His  thoughts  took  a  new  turn.  He  tried  to  im 
agine  what  Esther  Beaulieu  must  have  felt  when 
she  first  arrived  in  Bartonvale  and  discovered 
Tom's  position.  He  recollected  what  had  been 
told  him  of  their  struggle  together  against  the 
prejudices  of  the  Plated  City.  Yes,  there  was 
no  doubt  that  Esther  Beaulieu  would  have  had 
a  very  different  experience  in  Bartonvale  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Tom.  He  had  compromised  her. 
Fatally,  Lewis  wondered  ?  Would  the  Plated 
City  ever  forgive  her  for  her  dubious  ancestry 
on  that  dimly  remembered  mother's  side,  even  at 
some  future  day  when  Tom  Beaulieu  should  also 
be  half -forgotten  ?  Would  her  beauty  and  intelli 
gence  and  tact  count  for  nothing  as  against  that 
putative  drop  of  alien  blood  ?  No,  said  Norman 
Lewis  to  himself,  with  Tom  or  without  him,  the 
Plated  City  will  never  receive  Esther  Beaulieu  ; 
and,  after  all,  by  some  unconscious,  sternly  inflexi 
ble,  racial  instinct  of  self-preservation,  may  not 
the  Plated  City  be  quite  right  ? 

Tom  Beaulieu  moved  slightly,  in   his   stupor, 


282  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  Lewis  felt  suddenly  ashamed  of  himself  for 
thus  coolly  speculating  upon  the  future,  while  he 
still  watched  over  the  bedside  of  the  living  man. 
He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  moistened  the  band 
ages  again.  It  was  eleven.  He  was  drowsier 
now,  and  after  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  crept 
downstairs  in  search  of  something  to  read.  On 
the  table,  in  the  sitting-room,  lay  the  Doctor's 
copy  of  Mammon  ly  Harris,  half  open.  Lewis 
turned  the  leaves  a  moment.  His  eye  caught  the 
italicized  words  :  "  The  final  destination  of  the 
covetous  is  hell,'1''  whereupon  he  smiled  and  closed 
the  book  with  a  whimsical  sense  of  security. 
Covetousness  could  scarcely  be  called  his  beset 
ting  sin  at  present  ;  his  latest  benevolence  toward 
the  Lewis  Land  and  Irrigation  Company  had  left 
him  without  money  enough  to  pay  for  his  wedding 
present  to  Miss  Thayer.  The  Bartonvale  fire 
promised  indeed  to  put  some  money  in  his  pockets, 
at  the  price  of  hard  work  in  the  course  of  the 
next  few  weeks,  but  as  yet  he  had  no  excuse  for 
reading  Mammon  by  Harris  ! 

He  turned  to  the  old  bookshelves,  and  pulled 
out  one  book  after  another.  On  the  fly-leaf  of 
one  he  noticed  the  name  of  Everett  Atwood. 
That  must  have  been  the  brother  who  went  to 
the  bad,  he  reflected,  and  stuck  back  the  book, 
yawning.  There  was  nothing  here  he  cared 
for.  Finally  he  selected  some  magazines  from 
a  pile  which  Esther  had  brought  up  from  the 


283 


Library,  and  returned  to  the  sick-room.  But 
he  could  not  interest  himself  in  them.  His 
mind  was  truant.  By  and  by  he  laid  them 
down  softly,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his 
arms  thrown  above  his  head.  He  knew  now 
what  he  wanted  :  he  would  have  liked  to  be 
down  in  the  Bank  block,  before  his  drawers  of 
photographs.  How  often  had  he  been  able  to 
•escape  from  the  Plated  City,  and  from  all  the 
worriments  and  silent  sacrifices  of  his  life  by 
simply  dreaming  over  those  pictures  !  They  were 
of  lands  he  was  never  likely  to  see,  of  towers 
and  arches  and  sculptured  forms  which  he  could 
scarcely  hope  to  gaze  upon  in  reality.  Yet  per 
haps  for  that  very  reason,  he  always  dreamed 
himself  back  to  Bartonvale,  after  an  hour  in 
their  company,  refreshed  at  heart  and  with  a 
spirit  set  free.  Other  men  had  other  ways  of 
forgetting  the  keen  sordid  life  of  Main  Street,  — 
by  a  drive  up  the  river,  or  an  evening  in  New 
York,  or  a  quiet  hour  with  wife  and  child.  Nor 
man  Lewis  had  his  photographs.  For  a  moment 
he  wished  he  had  them  now  ;  he  wished  that  he 
were  not  here  in  the  old  Atwood  house,  watching 
over  a  wounded  man,  but  down  in  his  cosy  cor 
ner  in  the  Bank  block,  with  Craig  Kennedy  still 
silently  pulling  at  his  pipe  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  And  to  think  that  all  that  was  over, 
that  Craig  at  this  very  midnight  hour  was  whirl 
ing  westward  with  his  bride,  into  the  No-man's 


284  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Land  whither  happy  bridegrooms  go,  and  into  a 
new  inner  world  that  would  make  the  old  com 
panionable  Bank  block  world  seem  small !  Some 
thing  within  Norman  Lewis,  too,  cried  out  for  a 
new  experience,  for  the  unexplored,  for  the  larger 
life  that  haunts  and  yet  eludes  our  waking  dreams. 
Was  it  merely  his  photographs  that  he  wanted  ? 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  hall,  and  Esther 
Beaulieu  entered  the  sick-room.  She  was  fully 
dressed,  save  that  her  hair  had  evidently  been 
hastily  caught  into  place,  and  its  coils  were  al 
ready  loosening.  There  was  a  startled  expres 
sion  upon  her  face. 

"  Has  he  needed  me  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  I  did 
not  think  I  should  fall  asleep." 

Lewis  shook  his  head.  "  There  is  no  change," 
he  said. 

The  girl  leaned  over  her  brother,  and  smoothed 
the  coverlet.  He  was  lying  very  quietly  now, 
breathing  heavily.  She  came  back  softly  toward 
the  night-lamp.  Norman  Lewis  had  risen. 

"You  had  better  go  now,"  she -said.  "Thank 
you  very  much.  I  am  perfectly  rested,  and  can 
do  everything  that  the  doctor  spoke  of." 

"  I  think  you  need  some  one  here  besides  Dr. 
Atwood,"  replied  Lewis,  quietly.  "  If  you  don't 
mind,  I  won't  go  home  to-night." 

"  But  you  need  some  sleep,"  she  answered. 
"  It  is  nearly  one  o'clock,  and  you  did  not  go 
away  last  night  until  three."  She  hesitated. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  285 

"  Could  you  not  lie  down  on  the  sitting-room 
sofa  ?  There  is  a  shawl  there.  And  I  could  call 
you,  if  Tom  wakes." 

"  I  am  not  sleepy  in  the  least,"  said  Norman 
Lewis,  looking  her  in  the  eyes.  "  If  it  won't 
trouble  you,  I  think  I'll  stay  here." 

She  yielded,  having  spoken  perhaps  more 
bravely  than  she  felt.  It  was  a  comfort  to  her 
to  have  the  low-voiced,  friendly  featured  man 
there  in  the  room.  He  made  her  take  the  easy 
chair  by  the  night-lamp,  and  they  began  their 
watch  together.  The  June  night  was  profoundly 
quiet,  except  for  the  dull  thunder  of  the  big  dam, 
miles  up  the  Mattawanset,  and  now  and  then  a 
sleepy  rustle  of  the  Atwood  pines.  Through  the 
open  window  of  the  sick-room  there  could  be  seen 
the  shifting  lights  of  the  watchmen  patrolling  the 
burned  district,  fearful  of  any  new  outbreak  of  the 
flames.  They  seemed  like  fireflies,  and  crossed  and 
recrossed  the  Flats  as  noiselessly.  Lewis  watched 
them  for  a  while,  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  back 
to  Esther  Beaulieu.  Her  gaze  was  fastened  upon 
Tom  ;  she  seemed  to  count  each  one  of  his  slow, 
heavily  drawn  breaths.  Apparently  she  was  per 
fectly  oblivious  of  Norman  Lewis's  presence.  He 
found  himself  studying  her  face.  It  was  a  proud, 
delicate  one,  he  reflected,  and  singularly  pure. 
The  long  lashes  drooped  wearily  above  her  eyes, 
but  she  did  not  relax  her  affectionate,  troubled 
gaze  at  the  wounded  ball-player.  To  think,  said 


286  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  lawyer  to  himself,  that  she  and  he  had  the 
same  mother !  He  renewed  his  speculations  of 
an  hour  before  as  to  her  past  struggle  with  the 
Plated  City,  and  her  probable  future  in  case  Tom 
Beaulieu  were  to  die.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a 
change  in  his  own  point  of  view  since  the  girl  had 
come  into  the  room.  His  analysis  of  probabilities 
was  no  less  keen  than  before,  but  he  discovered 
that  he  had  now  taken  Miss  Beaulieu's  side.  At 
first  he  felt  half  amused  at  the  discovery.  What 
retainer  had  been  given  him  that  he  should  defend 
her  against  the  Plated  City?  He  surveyed  her 
from  head  to  foot.  Was  ever  a  client  more 
empty  handed  and  forsaken  ?  Save  for  the 
chivalrous  protection  of  old  James  Atwood,  she 
was  alone,  in  a  hopeless  contest.  Even  Dr.  At- 
wood's  championship  of  her  cause  had  com 
promised  her  in  the  eyes  of  Main  Street,  and 
innuendoes  were  not  wanting  on  the  Hill.  Yet 
look  at  the  girl's  face,  sweet  as  a  nun's,  and  proud 
as  Diana's  !  The  lawyer's  pulse  beat  quicker;  he 
forgot  that  a  half-hour  previously  he  had  been 
wishing  himself  down  in  the  Bank  block,  examin 
ing  his  collection  of  photographs. 

Suddenly  Miss  Beaulieu  turned  and  looked 
across  the  room  at  Lewis.  It  was  a  long,  in 
quiring  look,  as  if  she  would  have  spoken.  Then 
she  renewed  her  vigil,  but  with  a  change  in  her 
position  that  partly  hid  her  face.  For  five  min 
utes  she  had  been  growing  conscious  of  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  287 

lawyer's  silent  scrutiny.  It  troubled  her,  vaguely. 
In  her  helplessness  and  anxiety  about  Tom  she 
had  welcomed  Lewis's  presence,  detecting  beneath 
his  reticent,  sometimes  brusque,  demeanor  a  sym 
pathy  upon  which  she  felt  she  could  rely.  But 
she  had  not  known  what  it  would  mean  for  them 
to  watch  together ;  she  had  supposed  that  they 
might  both  be  busied  in  some  joint  ministry  to 
Tom ;  she  had  not  foreseen  that  she  would  sit 
here  motionless,  waiting,  waiting,  with  those  grave, 
searching  eyes  bent  upon  her  face.  Except  for 
her  brother,  she  had  never  sat  alone  in  a  room 
with  a  man.  She  wondered  if  Tante  Beaulieu 
would  have  thought  it  unmaidenly  in  her  that  she 
allowed  Mr.  Lewis  to  remain.  Why  did  he  per 
sist  in  looking  at  her,  instead  of  out  upon  the 
Flats,  as  he  had  done  at  first  ?  She  grew  restive. 
Again  she  turned  toward  him,  and  this  time  his 
eyes  fell.  She  made  a  hesitating  movement  to 
adjust  the  night-lamp,  as  if  it  had  been  for  this 
that  she  had  turned,  and  in  an  instant  he  crossed 
the  room  to  assist  her.  Silently  he  turned  the 
wick  down,  and  then  up,  to  suit  her  apparent 
wishes,  with  the  result  that  the  light  was  left 
exactly  as  it  had  been  before.  But  Lewis  did 
not  recross  the  room.  He  seated  himself  in  a 
straight-backed  chair  by  the  table,  resting  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  turning  sidewise  toward 
her  as  she  reclined  in  the  depths  of  her  easy  chair. 
He  seemed  to  her  fancy  to  tower  above  her,  to 


288  THE  PLATED   CITY 

assert  himself,  in  some  indefinable  way.  She 
felt  almost  afraid  of  him,  and  yet  his  eyes  were 
so  kind ! 

She  was  the  first  to  speak,  stammering  out  at 
random  something  about  the  medicines.  The  in 
stant  he  answered,  nodding  down  at  her  gravely, 
she  felt  comparatively  at  ease  again.  They  began 
to  chat,  in  low  tones,  much  as  they  had  chatted 
together  once  or  twice  at  the  Doctor's  tea-table. 
It  was  a  relief  after  the  tension  of  long  silence, 
amid  the  deep  hush  of  midnight.  But  the  pres 
ence  of  the  dark  figure  upon  the  bed,  laboring 
unconsciously  between  life  and  death,  awed  them 
both,  and  they  stopped  in  mid-sentence  again  and 
again,  startled  at  the  stillness  that  seemed  to  follow 
some  unusually  deep  and  painful  breath.  When 
the  breathing  recommenced,  they  would  glance  at 
each  other  and  take  up  again  the  broken  sentence, 
but  all  their  talk  was  of  the  fire,  and  of  Tom. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Esther,  "  how  Tom  was  hurt. 
I  did  not  know  that  you  saw  the  building  fall." 

He  told  her  all  he  could,  laying  stress  upon 
Tom's  bravery,  and  suppressing  any  surmises  of 
his  own  as  to  the  ball-player's  deliberate  folly. 
The  girl  listened  with  gleaming  eyes.  "  They 
are  brother  and  sister,"  thought  the  lawyer.  "  She 
would  do  that  reckless  sort  of  thing  herself,  if 
she  chose."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "And 
where  were  you  when  the  fire  broke  out  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Were  you  afraid  ?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  289 

It  Avas  her  turn  to  pause.  Then  she  opened 
her  heart.  What  she  had  shrunk  from  confiding 
even  to  Dr.  Atwood  it  seemed  quite  natural  to 
tell  to  this  serious-voiced,  younger  man,  who  had 
shown  himself  friendly  to  Tom  the  summer  before, 
and  who  was  sharing  her  watch  over  him  to-night. 

"  I  was  down  in  the  machine  shops  when  the 
alarm  was  given,"  she  replied.  "  I  do  not  re 
member  whether  I  was  afraid;  I  was  thinking 
about  Tom." 

"  In  the  machine  shops  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  nodded.  "  I  went  down  there  to  talk  with 
Cyrus  Calhoun.  Tom  wanted  to  have  me  see 
him  about  —  about  mother."  She  was  looking 
Lewis  full  in  the  face. 

"I  went  to  Calhoun  last  summer,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  a  voice  lower  than  ever.  t 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "but  Tom  did  not  feel  sure. 
He  wanted  me  to  see  Cyrus  Calhoun  myself." 

"  Why  didn't  he  go  ? "  said  Norman  Lewis. 
"Why  should  he  send  you  to  the  machine  shops 
at  night  ?  " 

She  perceived  his  meaning. 

"  I  did  not  mind,"  she  replied,  lifting  her  head 
a  trifle.  "  No  one  troubled  me.  If  I  had  known 
Tom  was  coming  last  night,  perhaps  I  would  have 
waited.  But  I  did  not  know  he  was  in  Bartonvale 
until  you  and  Mr.  Trellys  brought  him  here." 
She  paused. 

"  I  heard  to-day  he  had  just  come  in  on  the  up 


290  THE  PLATED   CITY 

train,"  hazarded  Lewis,  thinking  it  was  better 
that  he  should  break  the  silence.  "  He  was  just 
in  time  to  fight  the  fire  at  the  Neck." 

"  And  do  you  know,"  she  said,  sitting  straight 
up  in  the  easy  chair,  so  that  her  face  was  nearly 
on  a  level  with  Lewis's,  "  why  he  came  at  night  ? 
It  was  because  he  felt  ashamed  to  come  in  the 
daytime.  He  thought  he  was  disgraced  because 
he  lost  his  work,  when  it  was  not  his  fault  at  all ! 
And  he  was  not  sure  that  Cyrus  Calhoun  told 
you  the  truth,  when  you  made  out  the  paper.  It 
troubled  Tom  all  the  time,  after  he  came  back 
from  California.  Why  should  every  one  have 
been  so  cruel  to  Tom  ?  Why  should  it  make  any 
difference  to  people  whether  Cyrus  Calhoun  re 
members  all  about  mother  or  not?  We  are  just 
what  we  are.  But  no  one  knows  what  we  are, 
and  so  they  hate  us.  Is  that  fair?"  Her  lips 
were  trembling,  but  there  was  a  scornful  fire  in 
her  eyes. 

"  It  is  very  unfair,"  said  Norman  Lewis,  huskily. 
"It  is  the  way  the  world  is  made,  however,  and 
you  and  I  cannot  make  it  over  again."  He 
stopped,  wondering  what  had  made  him  clumsy 
enough  to  say  "  You  and  I,"  and  nevertheless,  at 
the  instant,  he  had  meant  it.  Her  passionate 
indignation  had  for  a  moment  seemed  to  isolate 
her  and  him  from  all  the  world  beside. 

She  flung  herself  back  in  the  big  chair,  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience,  and  lay  with  half-closed 


THE  PLATED  CITY  291 

eyes,  breathing  excitedly.  Lewis  looked  away 
from  her,  toward  the  dumb  figure  upon  the  bed, 
and  then  through  the  open  window,  out  upon  the 
Flats.  The  stars  had  set,  and  a  thin  fog  had 
crept  over  the  Mattawanset  Valley. 

"I  should  like  to  ask,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
interval,  "whether  Cyrus  Calhoun  told  you  the 
same  story  that  he  did  to  me." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wearily.  Yet  he  thought 
he  had  never  seen  a  lovelier  face.  "  I  think  so," 
she  replied.  "  He  told  me  some  things  about  my 
mother's  talk  when  she  was  strange  which  he 
forgot  to  tell  you,  he  said,  but  it  made  no  differ 
ence.  She  was  crazed  part  of  the  time,  and  used 
to  say  that  she  was  looking  for  her  husband,  who 
lived  in  Barton  vale.  And  *that  was  before  she 
married  my  papa." 

"  That  was  curious,"  said  Lewis. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl.  "  She  used  to  call  him 
Mr.  Everett,  but  Cyrus  Calhoun  says  there  was 
never  any  family  in  Barton  vale  by  that  name." 

"  There  isn't,"  said  the  lawyer. 

Esther  Beaulieu  nodded  acquiescently.  She 
too,  like  Cyrus  Calhoun,  had  scarcely  given  the 
matter  a  second  thought.  "  Yet  I  have  seen  that 
name  since  I  came  to  Bartonvale,"  she  remarked; 
"I  must  have  read  it  somewhere."  She  rose  to 
moisten  the  bandage  upon  Tom's  brow. 

"  Everett  ?  "  thought  Norman  Lewis  to  himself. 
"  Surely  I  have  seen  that  name  too,  and  within 


292  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  last  twenty-four  hours.  Everett  ?  Everett  ?  " 
He  tried  to  recall  the  circumstances  in  which  that 
name  had  met  his  eye,  but  without  avail. 

He  was  roused  by  an  exclamation  from  Esther 
Beaulieu.  In  an  instant  he  was  at  the  bedside. 
The  dark  eyes  of  the  sick  man  were  wide  open, 
roving  about  the  unfamiliar  room.  It  was  the 
room  where  the  Atwood  boys  had  slept  together, 
fifty  years  before.  A  frown  was  upon  the  ball 
player's  face.  Finally  his  gaze  grew  fixed  upon 
Esther,  the  set  features  relaxed,  the  saturnine  lips 
moved  as  if  they  would  have  spoken.  The  girl 
stooped  till  her  face  was  close  above  his.  His  eyes 
lightened,  and  he  knew  her.  Then  he  shivered 
slightly,  as  a  man  might  whose  feet  are  sinking 
into  a  darkly  rising  stream;  his  chin  was  lifted  as 
for  one  deep  breath  of  sweet  air  before  the  waters 
close, — and  he  was  gone.  With  a  cry  the  girl 
fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside;  Norman  Lewis 
stole  noiselessly  out  of  the  room;  and  through  the 
boughs  of  the  Atwood  pines  there  ran  the  mur 
mur  of  the  wind  of  dawn. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  293 


XV 


LATE  that  afternoon,  in  the  hushed  guest  cham 
ber  of  the  Atwood  house,  the  Doctor  stood  alone 
by  the  side  of  Tom  Beaulieu.  One  of  the  west 
ern  blinds  had  been  half  unrolled,  and  the  yellow 
sunlight  fell  upon  the  dead  man's  face.  It  was  a 
far  more  peaceful  countenance  than  the  haggard 
one  that  bent  above  it.  Through  James  Atwood's 
troubled  dreams  of  the  night  before  that  scene  in 
the  Louisiana  cross-roads  church  had  risen  and 
sunk  away  and  risen  again  incessantly.  Twenty- 
six  years  had  fled  since  he  had  stood  in  that  aisle, 
bedraggled  and  exhausted  with  his  ride  through 
the  lines,  and  stared  jealously  at  the  unknown 
woman  in  whose  lap  Everett's  head  was  pillowed. 
Twenty-six  years!  And  yet  the  sight  of  Esther 
Beaulieu  supporting  the  wounded  head  of  the 
ball-player  had  brought  everything  back,  with  a 
remorseless  vividness.  The  intervening  years  had 
failed  to  make  the  old  pain  dumb;  even  in  his 
dreams  his  heart  ached  for  Everett.  Everett's 
face  had  been  hovering  before  him  in  the  gray 
dawn,  when  Norman  Lewis  had  knocked  sharply 
upon  his  door,  and  whispered  what  had  happened. 
Dressing  hurriedly,  he  had  stumbled  up  the  stair' 


294  TEE  PLATED   CITY 

way  to  Everett's  old  room,  while  he  seemed  to 
hear  as  in  a  dream  Everett's  voice  upon  the  land 
ing,  and  to  detect  his  brother's  dark,  eager  feat 
ures  peering  at  him  from  the  half-lit  corners  of 
the  hall.  When  he  opened  the  door,  and  advanced, 
as  steadily  as  his  agitation  would  allow,  to  the 
side  of  Esther's  kneeling  figure,  he  beheld  upon 
Everett's  bed  a  pallid  face  so  strangely  like  his 
brother's  that  it  required  all  his  self-control  to 
keep  him  from  a  startled  cry.  Never  in  his  life 
as  far  as  he  knew,  save  once  upon  the  diamond, 
had  he  seen  the  ball-player,  until  the  night  when  he 
had  ordered  him  to  be  carried  to  his  own  roof.  Dis 
torted  by  pain  as  they  had  been,  there  was  nothing 
in  Tom  Beaulieu's  features  to  remind  one  of 
Everett  Atwood.  But  in  the  sudden  dignity 
which  Death  lends  to  the  meanest  face,  there  had 
come  a  transformation.  Except  for  the  stained 
bandage  across  the  brow,  and  the  mortal  pallor, 
it  was  Everett  Atwood  sleeping  there.  For  an 
instant  the  Doctor  trembled,  as  at  an  apparition, 
then  summoning  his  will-power,  he  shook  off  the 
fancy,  as  if  it  had  been  one  with  the  tissue  of  his 
broken  dreams.  He  touched  Esther  Beaulieu 
gently  upon  the  shoulder.  As  she  rose,  and 
turned  her  grief-stricken  eyes  upon  him,  his  brain 
whirled  again.  He  had  seen  just  that  look  in  a 
woman's  face  once  before.  It  was  when  the  tall 
person  on  the  floor  of  the  Louisiana  church  had 
stood  up,  and  turned  to  go  out,  when  all  was  over. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  295 

He  caught  his  breath,  the  room  wavered,  and  grew 
blurred.  Norman  Lewis  grasped  his  arm,  and 
looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  downstairs  ?  "  whispered 
the  lawyer,  after  a  moment.  "You're  not  very 
well,  you  know,  Doctor.  I'll  call  up  Roberts  at 
once.  I  didn't  wish  to  leave  Miss  Beaulieu  alone. 
I  ought  not  to  have  waked  you.  so  suddenly." 
And  rebuking  himself  for  what  he  fancied  was  the 
result  of  his  own  nervous  haste  in  arousing  on 
such  an  errand  a  man  not  altogether  strong,  Lewis 
got  him  downstairs,  and  poured  out  a  glass  of 
water,  before  calling  up  the  coachman. 

When  Esther  Beaulieu  and  James  Atwood  sat 
together  at  the  table  in  the  pretence  of  eating  the 
morning  meal,  while  strangers'  feet  were  busy  in 
the  room  above,  she  detected  the  Doctor,  more 
than  once,  in  the  act  of  making  some  strange  scru 
tiny  of  her  face.  But  her  thoughts  at  that  hour 
were  all  of  Tom  and  her  own  sorrow,  and  she  paid 
slight  heed  to  the  furtive  glances  of  Dr.  Atwood, 
thinking  merely  that  he  was  trying  to  discover, 
in  his  own  fashion,  whether  she  were  brave. 

By  midday,  the  Doctor  persuaded  himself  that 
his  morbid  fancies  were  loosening  their  hold.  The 
fact  that  he  had  been  dreaming  of  Everett  made 
it  only  natural  that  Tom  Beaulieu's  features  should 
have  reminded  him  of  Everett's,  in  the  dim  light 
of  dawn.  He  repeated  this  statement  to  himself 
until  he  believed  it,  and  in  the  early  afternoon 


296  THE  PLATED   CITY 

he  drove  the  black  horses  down  to  the  burned 
district,  and  tried  to  catch  the  spirit  of  feverish 
energy  with  which  the  Plated  City  was  battling 
against  disaster.  The  Plated  City  was  bound  to 
recover  herself,  he  was  told  at  every  turn ;  in  six 
months  she  would  be  putting  out  more  brass  and 
rubber  and  silk  and  silver  plate  than  ever.  His 
friends  asked  him  if  he  had  yet  placed  the  con 
tract  for  rebuilding  the  Atwood  Works.  He 
shook  his  head,  and  after  an  hour  of  vain  en 
deavor  to  interest  himself  down  town,  he  drove 
up  the  Hill  again.  That  morning  fancy  was 
reasserting  itself ;  he  could  not  escape  it ;  an 
insatiable  curiosity  seized  him  to  gaze  again  upon 
Tom  Beaulieu's  face.  The  house  was  quiet  now. 
A  neighbor  was  watching  while  Esther  slept,  and 
so  it  was  that  James  Atwood  crept  unobserved 
into  the  darkened  chamber,  and  half-unrolled  the 
western  blind. 

Sickening  uncertainty  oppressed  him  as  he 
looked.  In  the  twelve  hours  that  had  elapsed 
since  dawn,  a  subtle  alteration  had  evidently  taken 
place;  certain  traits  that  were  dominant  in  the 
gray  morning  light  seemed  half  effaced,  and  other 
traits,  unnoticed  then,  assumed  now  the  mastery. 
It  was  at  once  less  like  Everett's  face  and  more. 
A  dull  fear  took  possession  of  the  Doctor.  He  had 
never  known  that  Everett  had  a  child.  Until  the 
past  twelve  hours  he  had  never  thought  of  such 
a  possibility.  It  was  months  after  his  brother's 


THE  PLATED   CITY  297 

death  before  he  was  assured  that  the  woman  he 
had  seen  in  the  torch-lit  church  was  Everett's 
wife,  and  then,  after  he  had  with  secret  shame 
forwarded  money  for  her,  because  whatever  she 
might  have  been,  Everett  had  at  least  married 
her, — he  learned  that  she  had  disappeared.  That 
was  the  last  of  her.  And  yet  ?  And  yet  ?  Recall 
ing  Avhat  he  had  been  told  of  Esther  Beaulieu's 
mother  wandering  to  Bartonvale  in  1865,  —  why 
not  ?  Things  strange  as  that  were  happening 
every  day  somewhere. 

The  Doctor's  memory  seemed  jarred  and  broken. 
It  took  all  his  force  to  strive  to  summon  up  the 
countenance  of  Everett  at  twenty-five,  and  to  con 
front  it  with  those  calm  features  upon  the  pillow. 
The  more  he  sought  to  visualize  Everett's  appear 
ance,  the  more  blurred  seemed  the  image,  and 
confused  with  the  sombre  yet  infinitely  peaceful 
lineaments  now  before  his  eyes.  At  last  he  shook 
his  head  in  despair.  It  was  like  matching  shadow 
with  shadow.  His  gaze  wandered  irresolutely 
about  the  prim,  familiar  room.  Suddenly  it  was  ar 
rested  by  one  of  the  oval,  black-framed  daguerro- 
types  upon  the  opposite  wall,  taken  on  the  eve  of 
Everett's  ill-starred  journey  to  New  Orleans.  The 
Doctor  hurriedly  crossed  the  room,  and  taking  the 
picture  from  the  nail,  came  back  to  the  bedside, 
tipping  the  daguerrotype  this  way  and  that  in  the 
yellow  bar  of  sunlight.  He  cast  one  long  look  at 
the  spectral,  pallid,  boyish  portrait,  with  the  big 


298  THE  PLATED   CITY 

black  stock  tied  under  the  chin  and  the  dark  hair 
pushed  backward,  and  then  glanced,  with  forced 
composure,  at  Tom  Beaulieu.  Despite  his  efforts 
at  self-control,  a  groan  broke  from  his  lips.  Good 
God,  it  was  so  !  He  had  been  right !  If  a  father 
was  ever  imaged  in  a  son,  then  there  in  that  tran 
quil  sunlight  lay  the  body  of  Everett's  child !  Dr. 
Atwood's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  A  wave 
of  passionate,  rebellious,  remorseful  feeling  surged 
over  him.  To  think  that  Everett's  boy  had  been 
brought  home  at  last  to  the  Atwood  house,  only 
when  it  was  too  late !  He  sobbed,  in  the  silent 
guest  chamber. 

A  light  step  in  the  adjoining  room  roused  him, 
and  with  shaking  fingers  he  replaced  the  daguerreo 
type,  closed  the  blind,  and  groped  his  way  out. 
He  stole  through  the  hall  before  Esther  Beaulieu 
had  time  to  descend  the  stairs,  and  silently  enter 
ing  his  office  door,  shut  and  locked  it  behind  him, 
and  sank  trembling  into  a  chair. 

With  head  thrown  back,  and  outstretched  arms, 
he  lay  panting,  like  one  that  has  fled  from  a  mor 
tal  enemy.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  veins 
across  his  temple  were  swollen,  as  his  long  breaths 
went  and  came.  The  office  seemed  terribly  close. 
Through  the  uncurtained  window  the  hot  sun 
shine  streamed  upon  his  face,  but  he  did  not  stir. 
His  bitter  misery  seemed  to  paralyze  him  ;  he 
could  only  mutter  over  and  over  again  in  pathetic 
iteration,  the  words  "  Everett's  boy !  " 


THE  PLATED    CITY  299 

After  a  little  his  thoughts  came  back.  That  it 
should  all  end  like  this  !  In  gush  upon  gush  of 
affectionate  recollection,  his  brother's  early  ambi 
tions  and  ill-starred  adventures  reverted  to  his 
mind.  He  himself  had  been  the  stay-at-home,  the 
plodder,  and  many  a  time  had  he  stood  between 
Everett  and  his  mother's  well-grounded  indigna 
tion.  He  had  loved  the  boy,  he  had  put  him  on 
his  feet  after  a  dozen  falls,  he  had  even  held  his 
own  head  high  during  those  early  years  of  the 
war,  and  stoutly  denied  that  Everett  was  a  rebel, 
or  at  least  a  copperhead.  Half  the  reason  for  his 
own  enlistment  as  an  army  surgeon  was  to  prove 
to  the  world  that  the  Atwoods  were  loyal.  He 
had  borne  alone  the  shame  and  grief  that  followed 
upon  his  discovery  of  Everett's  entanglement. 
Not  a  soul  in  Bartonvale  knew  the  story  of  his 
brother's  marriage,  nor  that  Everett  had  fallen 
with  a  Northern  bullet  through  his  brain.  When 
James  Atwood's  pride  was  touched,  he  could  be 
as  secret  as  the  grave. 

And  now  no  one  need  know  the  truth  which 
had  flashed  itself  upon  him.  What  could  possibly 
be  gained  by  advertising  the  fact  that  the  dead 
ball-player,  a  posthumous  child  by  a  woman  of 
dubious  race,  was  the  last  of  the  Atwoods,  and 
the  heir  to  the  very  crest  of  the  Bartonvale  Hill  ? 
There  was  no  proof.  There  was  nothing  but  an 
old  man's  intuition.  Silence,  and  cool  earth  upon 
his  coffin,  were  surely  the  best  gifts  one  could  ren- 


300  THE  PLATED   CITY 

der  to  Tom  Beaulieu  now.  Why  should  Everett's 
tarnished  and  already  half -forgotten  name  be  the 
prey  of  the  Plated  City's  gossip?  Having  for 
twenty-six  years  opened  his  lips  to  no  man  con 
cerning  Everett's  life  in  Louisiana,  was  it  not  too 
late,  and  now  doubly  futile,  to  tell  the  story  of 
that  old  infatuation  ?  Better  to  shroud  it,  closer 
than  ever,  and  lay  it  with  poor  Tom  Beaulieu 
away  forever  from  the  sight  of  men. 

Dr.  Atwood  rose  stealthily  from  his  chair,  and 
opening  his  office  safe,  took  out  a  thin  bundle  of 
papers  from  the  inmost  drawer.  He  had  not 
looked  at  them  for  years,  and  yet  he  knew  them 
by  heart.  It  was  not  that  they  were  so  very  im 
portant  :  most  of  them  were  long-outlawed  notes 
held  against  New  Orleans  business  houses,  which 
had  been  in  Everett's  pockets  when  he  fell ;  and 
there  were  two  or  three  letters  from  Everett, 
directed  to  James  at  Bartonvale,  which  had  not 
reached  the  Doctor  until  many  weeks  after  he  had 
laid  his  brother  in  his  Southern  grave.  These 
letters  were  all  about  the  woman  he  was  going  to 
marry.  James  Atwood  had  read  them  originally 
with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  as  he  now  ran  his 
eye  over  the  eagerly  penned  boyish  lines  in  their 
fading  ink,  the  old  pain,  and  a  new  sense  of  the 
tragic  chances  of  life,  haunted  him. 

"...  Of  course  I  know  I  shall  be  ostracized 
in  this  parish,  but  I  do  not  care.  If  you  could  see 
her,  you  would  know  why.  Jim,  she  is  enough  to 


THE  PLATED   CITY  301 

turn  the  head  of  a  steadier  man  than  I  am,  and 
God  knows  I  am  steadier  than  when  I  came  to 
New  Orleans  four  years  ago.  I  have  had  hard 
luck,  but  this  is  going  to  set  everything  right. 
After  a  while,  some  of  the  planters  will  come 
round  to  my  side,  and  understand  the  sort  of 
woman  she  is,  I  know.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  see  her,  Jim  !  She  is  a  pure  French  Creole 
—  the  finest  women  in  the  world,  my  boy  !  —  and 
she  knows  her  family  tree,  every  branch  of  it, 
farther  back  than  you  or  I  do.  Here  are  some 
names  and  dates,  if  you  want  to  see  for  yourself. 
.  .  .  People  here  don't  believe  this  ;  in  fact,  there's 
a  lot  of  talk  that  I  need  not  repeat  to  you,  d — n 
them  all !  I  believe  her  enough  to  marry  her, 
though  I  admit  that  when  you  look  at  the  circum 
stances  of  her  life,  from  the  outside,  a  man  might 
well  think  twice.  .  .  . 

"  She  is  an  angel,  but  she  has  had  to  go  through 
hell.  Nobody  knows  just  what  that  girl  has  been 
and  done,  except  me.  No  one  ever  will.  That  is 
our  business,  and  no  one  else's,  from  now  on.  I 
don't  know  that  I  wonder  so  much  at  what  some 
men  may  have  said  of  her,  but  henceforth,  in  my 
presence,  her  name  crosses  no  man's  lips.  We  are 
to  be  married  Sunday.  I  wonder  what  mother 
will  say  ?  Don't  tell  her  ;  I  want  to  write  by  and 
by,  and  tell  her  all  about  it  myself.  .  .  . 

"  I  say  she  has  not  a  drop  of  negro  blood,  not 
one  drop.  But  did  you  ever  stop  to  think  that 


302  THE  PLATED   CITY 

there's  a  good  deal  of  d — d  nonsense  afloat  in  this 
world,  Jim  ?  You  know  well  enough  that  there 
are  queer  stories  about  the  'black  Atwoods.' 
I'm  a  'black  Atwood,'  myself,  and  yet  not  fool 
enough  to  think  that  it  was  an  Indian  chief  who 
married  into  the  Virginia  branch,  before  they 
came  North.  That  makes  a  good  enough  story, 
but  I  think  the  less  said  the  better  about  the  rea 
son  for  the  Virginia  Atwoods  coming  to  Connecti 
cut.  Mind,  I  don't  say  that  we've  got  any  black 
blood  ;  but  the  longer  I  live  down  here,  the  more  I 
laugh  at  that  yarn  about  the  Indian  chief.  What 
would  you  say,  really,  to  an  African  princess  up 
in  the  branches  of  our  family  tree?  You  don't 
have  to  go  back  two  hundred  years  always  to 
strike  something  that  says  that  men  are  men  and 
women  are  women  and  that  blood  is  red.  Do  you 
understand  ?  There's  too  much  queerness  behind 
every  one  of  us,  if  you  get  back  far  enough.  The 
safest  thing  is  to  shut  up,  and  call  no  names.  All 
of  which  means  that,  though  I  believe  she  is  a 
Creole  of  the  Creoles,  I  don't  think  a  'black 
Atwood'  would  have  the  right  to  say  much,  if 
she  wasn't.  I  hope  I  have  not  disgusted  you, 
Jim.  I  never  thought  of  such  things  till  I  came 
South ;  the  Pocahontas  story  was  good  enough  for 
me.  .  .  . 

"There  is  just  one  thing  that  is  a  little  awk 
ward.  I  hear  I'm  still  wanted  in  New  Orleans, 
for  that  row  in  the  St.  Charles  Hotel.  The 


303 


fellow  died,  though  I  swear  I  fired  high,  and  it 
was  a  man  shooting  behind  me  somewhere,  who 
killed  him.  But  it  is  mixed  up  with  politics,  and 
I  still  have  to  lie  low.  Between  us,  Jim,  that's 
why  I  enlisted ;  they  were  getting  suspicious  of 
me  here,  and  '  Mr.  Everett '  is  not  enough  of  an 
assumed  name  to  fool  people,  though  I've  got  to 
stick  by  it  now.  She  knows  me  by  that  name, 
you  see ;  and  it'll  have  to  be  '  Mr.  Everett '  all 
around,  till  we  drive  you  Yankees  out  of  the  Red 
River  district,  next  month.  I'm  in  rather  a  queer 
fix  for  a  good  Connecticut  Democrat,  eh  ?  But  I 
shall  pull  through !  Good  by !  Did  I  tell  you 
that  we  are  to  be  married  Sunday  ?  .  .  .  ' 

The  Doctor  read  them  through  slowly.  Twenty- 
six  years  had  not  robbed  those  lines  of  their  reck 
less  ardor,  their  mockery  of  conventions,  their 
brotherly  affection.  Slowly  he  replaced  them  in 
the  envelope,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair.  Had  he 
done  right  by  Everett,  after  all  ?  On  his  return 
from  Louisiana,  with  the  shrugs  and  innuendoes 
of  Everett's  Southern  neighbors  fresh  in  his  mind, 
he  had  said  nothing  to  his  mother  about  the  tall 
dark  woman  in  the  church.  Their  mother  had 
had  sorrow  enough  over  Everett  already.  There 
was  no  use  giving  her  an  added  shame.  And  even 
when  these  last  letters  found  their  way  to  Barton- 
vale,  James  Atwood,  after  long  hesitation,  had 
decided  to  keep  them  to  himself.  Undoubtedly 
Everett  had  believed  in  the  girl,  and  married  her, 


304  THE  PLATED   CITY 

but  why  should  his  old  mother  know  ?  Those  mock 
ing  sentences  about  the  "black  Atwoods,"  also, 
would  have  torn  her  heart.  And  so,  to  the  day  of 
her  death,  James  kept  the  truth  from  her.  Out  of 
sheer  love  to  Everett,  he  forwarded  money  for  the 
woman,  but  when  the  answer  came  that  she  could 
not  be  found,  he  breathed  easier,  and  never  pressed 
the  search.  It  was  this  that  troubled  him  now, 
as  he  sat  brooding  over  the  bundle  of  yellowing 
papers.  Ought  he  not  to  have  tried  harder  to 
trace  her  ?  If  the  case  had  been  reversed,  and  his 
own  wife,  and  possibly  a  child,  had  been  friendless 
and  forsaken,  would  not  Everett  have  been  tireless 
in  seeking  them  ?  Would  the  fact  that  it  was  war 
time,  and  that  he  was  needed  elsewhere,  and  that 
he  shrank  from  the  very  thought  of  such  a  mar 
riage,  have  made  any  difference  to  the  younger 
brother,  standing  in  the  older  brother's  place  ? 
The  Doctor  knew  that  it  would  not.  His  con 
science  stung  him  at  the  thought.  He  whose 
enterprise  and  irreproachable  integrity  had  made 
him  the  first  man  in  the  Plated  City,  had  never 
theless  been  fatally  lax  in  the  fulfilment  of  a 
sacred  trust.  It  was  no  less  sacred  because  he 
stood  unpledged.  Would  Everett  have  faltered 
in  the  quest  because  he  had  never  promised  in 
so  many  words  to  care  for  an  only  brother's 
widow? 

But  how  inexorably  was  the  punishment  come 
upon  him  !     To  think  that  the  widowed  outcast 


THE  PLATED   CITY  305 

should  have  wandered  northward  with  her  baby, 
and  reached  at  last  the  very  town  where  her  hus 
band  had  been  born  !  If  she  had  known  him,  as 
the  letter  had  seemed  to  indicate,  only  as  "Mr. 
Everett,"  it  was  no  wonder  she  had  failed  to  dis 
cover  the  object  of  her  search.  The  name  Barton- 
vale  had  perhaps  clung  to  her  memory  when 
weightier  matters  had  eluded  it.  And  to  think 
that  she  had  lived  here  in  Bartonvale  like  an 
Ishmaelite,  relegated  to  the  negro  quarter,  and 
despised  there  as  a  woman  of  mixed  blood  ! 

A  "Creole  of  the  Creoles"  —  a  woman  whom 
Everett  had  loved,  to  be  outlawed  in  his  native 
village,  and  forced  at  last,  in  despair,  to  marry  a 
drunken  stone-mason,  that  she  might  get  bread 
for  her  baby  !  That  that  boy,  the  son  of  Everett, 
should  grow  up  in  Bartonvale  as  a  no-man's  child 
on  Nigger  Hill,  should  turn  into  a  professional 
ball-player,  fail  in  his  one  great  effort  at  social 
rehabilitation,  and  perish  at  last  in  a  madcap 
struggle  to  save  the  shops  of  James  Atwood  and 
many  another  from  the  flames  !  And  that  James 
Atwood,  all  these  years,  should  have  been  steadily 
laying  dollar  to  dollar,  absorbed  in  developing  the 
Atwood  Works,  successful  and  measurably  happy, 
while  a  boy  of  the  old  Atwood  blood  was  running 
in  the  Plated  City  streets  !  "  He  that  provideth 
not  for  his  own ,"  —  the  words  had  long  gone  out 
of  his  memory,  apparently,  but  he  remembered 
now  reciting  them  with  Everett  at  their  mother's 


306  THE  PLATED   CITY 

knee  one  toilsome  Sunday  afternoon  in  their  boy 
hood,  —  "  He  that  provideth  not  for  his  own,  and 
especially  for  those  of  his  own  house,  hath  denied 
the  faith,  and  is  worse  than  an  infidel." 

After  all,  was  it  true  ?  Was  it  not,  rather, 
too  pitiful  to  be  true  ?  There  was  no  proof.  It 
might  never  have  entered  his  head  had  it  not 
been  for  the  chance  resemblance  of  Esther  to  that 
woman  who  might  have  been  her  mother.  That 
had  set  him  to  dreaming,  and  it  was  not  strange 
that  Tom  Beaulieu's  face  that  morning  had 
seemed  to  him  like  Everett's.  But  he  had  been 
excited,  and  such  coincidences  were  not  unknown. 
Even  when  he  stood  in  the  guest  chamber,  an 
hour  since,  might  he  not  possibly  have  been  mis 
taken  ?  Was  a  fancied  likeness  between  two  faces 
strong  enough  evidence  to  warrant  him  in  believ 
ing  what  would  turn  his  last  years  into  years  of 
miserable,  impotent  regret  ? 

There  came  a  rap  at  the  office  door.  The  Doc 
tor  thrust  the  papers  back  into  the  safe  and  rose, 
but  he  did  not  approach  the  door.  He  was  ex 
traordinarily  agitated.  He  must  decide  whether 
he  would  entertain  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 
He  felt  by  some  intuition  that  the  crisis  was  upon 
him.  Again  came  the  rap,  and  a  low  voice  that 
he  thought  he  knew.  He  hesitated.  Before 
opening  that  door,  he  realized  that  he  must 
choose  one  course  of  action  or  the  other.  Either 
Tom  Beaulieu  was  Everett's  son,  or  he  was  not. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  307 

And  even  as  the  Doctor  put  this  dilemma  to  him 
self,  the  darkened  chamber  was  again  before  his 
eyes,  and  the  daguerrotype,  and  the  dead  man's 
sombre  yet  peaceful  face,  in  the  revealing  sun 
light.  He  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  but  he 
was  true  to  his  deepest  self.  With  head  erect,  he 
strode  to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

Norman  Lewis  stood  there.  "  I  beg  your  par 
don,  Doctor,"  he  said  ;  "I  thought  I  had  attended 
to  everything  this  morning,  but  I  forgot  one 
thing.  Where  shall  Beaulieu  be  buried  ?  " 

Dr.  Atwood  peered  at  the  lawyer  with  such  a 
strange  pathetic  expression  that  Lewis  dropped 
his  eyes.  He  had  not  supposed  that  the  Doctor 
took  Tom  Beaulieu's  death  so  hard. 

"The  young  man  is  to  be  buried  in  the  Atwood 
lot,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Lewis  bowed  gravely.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  and  Dr.  Atwood  closed  the  door  and 
locked  it  again.  Lewis  struck  one  hand  noise 
lessly  into  the  other,  with  intense  excitement. 

"  In  the  Atwood  lot  ?  "  he  exclaimed  to  himself. 
"That  means  that  he  will  marry  Esther  Beaulieu 
yet."  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Norman 
Lewis  knew  what  it  is  to  be  jealous. 


308  THE  PLATED   CITY 


XVI 

DR.  ATWOOD  did  not  come  out  to  supper.  It 
did  not  seem  to  him  that  he  could  meet  Esther's 
solicitous,  affectionate  gaze.  In  answer  to  her 
soft  voice  at  the  office  door  he  asked  that  a  cup 
of  tea  might  be  sent  in  to  him,  but  it  remained 
untasted  upon  his  desk.  The  sun  fell  lower  and 
lower  through  the  boughs  of  the  old  pines,  and 
at  last  the  office  grew  quite  dark,  but  still  Dr. 
Atwood  sat  brooding  by  the  window.  He  was 
trying  to  conquer  a  sudden  unreasonable  aversion 
to  the  orphan  girl  whom  he  had  befriended. 
With  a  kind  of  strange  shame,  he  dreaded  to  look 
her  in  the  eyes,  to  read  in  her  mournful  visage  a 
likeness  to  the  woman  who  had  won  his  brother's 
love.  That  marriage  with  a  woman  concerning 
whose  history  those  who  ought  to  have  known 
her  well  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  smiled 
understandingly,  had  given  bitterness  to  James 
Atwood's  memories  of  Everett,  during  all  these 
years.  But  it  was  a  bitterness  that  had  steadily 
grown  less,  and  sometimes,  as  the  Doctor  had 
re-read  those  yellowing  letters,  he  had  found 
himself  believing  every  word  that  Everett  had 
written  in  her  vindication.  Why  should  not 


THE  PLATED   CITY  309 

Everett  have  known  her  best,  after  all  ?  He  was 
no  fool,  though  guilty  of  many  a  folly.  In  any 
case,  as  the  Doctor  had  often  told  himself,  it  was 
all  over  long  ago,  and  Everett's  reckless  alliance 
made  no  difference  to  any  one  alive.  Their  mother 
would  have  grieved,  no  doubt,  if  she  had  learned 
it,  but  her  elder  son's  unbroken  secrecy  had  kept 
her  from  knowing.  Sleeping  dogs  had  been  let 
lie,  and  James  Atwood  had  hoped  they  would 
sleep  on  to  the  world's  end. 

But  they  had  wakened.  The  face  and  figure 
of  the  dark  queenly  girl  now  under  the  Atwood 
roof  were  the  face  and  figure  that  had  intoxicated 
Everett,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before.  The  life 
less  form  in  the  closed  chamber  was  that  of 
Everett's  child,  come  home  to  the  Atwood  house 
at  last.  This  was  the  worst.  The  sight  of  Esther 
might  give  the  Doctor  pain,  as  recalling  an  old 
sorrow,  but  the  thought  of  Tom's  unregarded 
existence  in  Bartonvale,  during  all  the  years  of 
boyhood,  struck  to  the  old  man's  soul.  He  had 
failed  in  his  duty.  He  had  left  undone  the  one 
thing  that  he  ought  to  have  done.  He  had  hunted 
through  a  dozen  courts  the  title  of  the  land  on 
which  stood  the  Atwood  Works  ;  could  he  not 
have  traced  through  a  single  parish  the  footsteps 
of  a  woman  who  bore  —  or  should  have  borne  — 
his  brother's  name  ?  A  single  slighted  duty, 
among  all  the  duties  so  scrupulously  performed  ; 
one  moment  of  shrinking  from  an  unpleasant 


310  THE  PLATED    CITY 

task,  in  a  lifetime  of  tasks  patiently  accomplished  ; 
how  bitter  that  the  consequences  of  it  should  be 
visited  upon  him  'now,  when  his  head  was  white, 
and  his  strength  was  failing  !  It  was  not  merely 
the  future  that  seemed  spoiled  to  him  ;  the  knowl 
edge  that  Everett's  son  had  brushed  past  him  a 
thousand  times  upon  the  streets  of  Bartonvale 
seemed  to  spoil  all  the  past,  too ;  it  made  his 
twenty -five  years  of  business  success  seem  a  pitiful 
and  tarnished  thing,  not  worth  the  winning.  He 
had  been  the  autocrat  of  the  Plated  City,  but  he 
had  never  stretched  out  his  hand  to  his  brother's 
son.  Only  when  it  was  too  late  had  he  shown 
Tom  Beaulieu  a  kindness,  and  then  it  had  been 
simply  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  whom  he  had  chosen 
to  champion.  Even  if  the  dead  man  could  know 
that  he  was  to  be  given  burial  with  the  Atwoods, 
would  he  not  — somehow,  somewhere  —  feel  the 
irony  of  his  fate  ?  An  outcast  all  his  life,  what 
mattered  it  that  the  stone  above  his  head  should 
sometime  tell  the  gossips  that  he  had  been  an 
Atwood  ? 

No,  there  was  no  atonement  possible.  The  one 
grief  of  James  At  wood's  life  had  been  the  career 
of  Everett.  This  grief  was  destined  to  be  deep 
ened  as  the  knowledge  of  that  career,  in  all  its 
consequences,  was  disclosed.  That  was  all.  There 
was  no  escape.  His  weakness  in  failing  to  do  his 
utmost  to  seek  out  his  brother's  wife  would  bring 
life-long  regret,  a  remorse  that  would  not  slumber. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  311 

It  was  idle  to  think  of  reparation  now.  And  as  the 
hours  of  the  long  evening  crept  away,  even  the 
remorse  that  preyed  upon  Dr.  Atwood's  sensitive 
conscience  was  numbed  by  a  dull  misery,  a  vague 
sense  of  the  impotence  of  effort,  the  futility  of  life. 
By  and  by,  eleven  o'clock  struck  from  one  of 
the  churches  on  the  quiet  Green.  Something 
turned  the  Doctor's  thoughts  to  the  little  house 
underneath  the  elms,  where  Mrs.  Thayer  was 
sleeping.  Mrs.  Thayer  !  If  Everett's  wayward 
life  had  taught  his  brother  what  grief  meant, 
James  Atwood  had  also  learned  what  it  was  to 
love.  Love  for  her,  and  grief  for  Everett,  had 
been  the  two  great  passions  that  the  lonely  man 
had  known.  As  the  stroke  of  the  bell  rose  softly 
to  his  ears  through  the  murmur  of  the  elm  boughs 
and  the  pines,  he  found  himself  thinking  of 
Rachel  Thayer.  There  was  something  peaceful 
in  the  very  sound  of  her  name,  after  the  distress 
ing  hours  of  conflict  with  himself,  and  self- 
reproach.  He  wondered  what  she  would  say  to 
him,  if  she  understood  all  the  trouble  that  lay 
upon  his  heart.  It  would  be  something  sweet 
and  restful,  he  was  sure,  words  serious  and  tran 
quil,  like  herself.  Some  men  had  women  like 
Mrs.  Thayer  under  their  roofs  their  whole  lives 
long,  to  give  wise  and  tender  counsel,  to  whisper 
solace,  to  grant  them  refuge  from  the  conten 
tions  and  turbulence  of  the  outer  world.  His 
own  lot  had  been  different.  He  had  gone  through 


312  THE  PLATED   CITY 

life  without  her  daily  presence,  save  as  that  pres 
ence  was  constant  in  his  memory.  Yet  more  than 
once,  at  certain  crises,  he  was  conscious  of  having 
been  guided  by  her  wishes  as  actually  as  if  she  had 
been  standing  by  his  side.  What  would  she  whis 
per  to  him  now,  if  she  were  here  in  the  dark,  silent 
office,  and  knew  everything?  Would  she  say  that 
there  was  any  atonement  to  be  made? 

With  a  sudden  agitation,  he  rose  to  his  feet. 
What  if  she  had  already  spoken !  Had  she  not, 
by  virtue  of  some  saint-like  prescience  of  his  need, 
already  told  him  what  he  ought  to  do  ?  He  struck  a 
match,  and  lighted  a  lamp,  with  hands  that  shook 
with  emotion.  Opening  again  the  door  of  his  safe, 
he  took  from  the  inner  drawer  the  note  that  Mrs. 
Thayer  had  written  him,  weeks  before.  He  read 
it,  and  re-read  it,  standing  close  by  the  lamp. 

"  DEAR  JAMES  :  Sarah  tells  me  that  you  have 
been  planning  with  Craig  Kennedy  to  build  her 
a  fine  house  on  the  Atwood  place.  That  was 
very  generous,  and  just  like  you,  James.  But 
please  do  not  do  it.  You  must  not  do  it.  I  will 
tell  you  some  of  the  reasons  why.  I  am  often 
fearful  for  Sarah.  She  is  a  good  girl,  but  some 
times  the  world  seems  to  have  a  strong  hold  upon 
her.  If  she  were  to  live  in  such  a  house  as  you 
would  wish  to  give  her,  I  fear  it  would  lead  her 
into  temptation.  It  would  be  harder  for  her  to 
be  the  sort  of  woman  I  hope  and  pray  she  may 


THE  PLATED   CITY  313 

become.     No,  do  not  do  it,  James.     And  I  know 
you  will  not  if  I  ask  you. 

"But  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  would 
do,  now  that  you  are  a  rich  man,  and  can  do  so 
much  good  with  your  money  ?  I  wish  you  would 
build  a  hospital,  James,  on  the  very  top  of  the 
Hill,  and  call  it,  like  one  I  have  just  read  about, 
the  House  of  Mercy.  I  have  thought  about  this 
for  many  years,  and  if  I  do  not  speak  to  you  of 
it  now,  I  may  never  have  the  courage  again. 
There  is  no  place  in  Bartonvale  where  a  man 
injured  at  the  shops  may  be  carried,  or  a  stranger 
may  be  taken  to  die.  Not  a  hospital  in  the  whole 
Mattawanset  Valley  !  It  makes  me  sad  to  think 
of  it,  with  all  the  wealth  there  is  now  upon  the 
Hill.  And  there  might  be  others  besides  the 
wounded  who  could  go  there,  James,  for  better 
treatment  than  they  could  get  at  home.  Do  you 
know,  when  you  wished  me  to  go  to  New  York, 
once,  to  stay  in  the  hospital,  I  was  afraid  to  go, 
though  I  was  grateful.  If  I  could  have  gone  to 
a  hospital  here  in  Bartonvale,  it  would  have  been 
different.  It  is  too  late  now,  and  perhaps  all  was 
for  the  best.  But  there  will  always  be  those  who 
will  need  a  House  of  Mercy. 

"You  will  think  carefully  about  this,  I  know, 
and  you  will  do  what  seems  to  you  right.  You 
have  always  done  that,  James. 

"  Sarah  seems  very  happy. 

"RACHEL  CARRINGTON  THAYER." 


314  THE  PLATED   CITY 

The  Doctor  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  resting 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  sat  staring  at  the  faded 
carpet.  Was  it  not  an  answer  to  his  unuttered 
cry  to  her  for  guidance  ?  When  her  note  had 
first  reached  him,  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his 
mind  had  been  disappointment  in  her  disapproval 
of  his  plan.  Yet  his  business  affairs  seemed  then 
so  uncertain  that  her  decision  gave  him  a  sort  of 
relief,  as  well.  There  was  one  less  thing  to  think 
of,  and  he  had  deferred  consideration  of  her  sug 
gestion  about  the  hospital  until  he  could  ascertain 
more  precisely  where  he  stood.  But  his  mind 
had  recurred  more  than  once,  in  spite  of  him,  to 
the  House  of  Mercy,  and  Mike  Fennessey's  sullen 
words,  the  night  of  the  fire,  had  brought  sharply 
home  to  him  a  sense  of  the  Plated  City's  need. 
As  he  sat  now,  with  Mrs.  Thayer's  delicately 
written  note  between  his  fingers,  his  heart  beat 
fast.  A  reawakening  energy  was  asserting  itself 
within  him.  She  had  answered  him.  She  had 
told  him  of  something  he  could  do  —  something 
that  would  make  his  long  self-absorption  in  busi 
ness  seem  less  selfish,  that  would  quicken '  his 
remaining  years  with  the  pulsation  of  a  new  in 
terest  ;  above  all,  something  that  might  serve  as 
a  reparation  —  tardy,  indeed,  and  yet  not  wholly 
valueless  —  for  his  unconscious  neglect  of  his  own 
kin.  A  House  of  Mercy  !  Surely,  that  if  any 
thing,  would  bespeak  mercy  for  its  builder,  who 
had  sinned  ignorantly  against  his  brother's  son. 


THE  PLATED    CITY  315 

The  race  of  the  Atwoods  would  one  day  disap 
pear  from  the  crest  of  Bartonvale  Hill,  but  it  was 
within  the  power  of  the  last  Atwood  to  leave  a 
perpetual  legacy  to  the  valley  that  had  made  him 
rich,  to  endow  a  House  of  Mercy  whose  beneficent 
influence  should  cover  all  the  secret  or  open  sin 
and  shame  and  shortcomings  of  that  race  as  with 
an  everlasting  robe  of  charity.  High  above  the 
smoke  and  clank  and  tumult  of  the  Plated  City 
it  should  stand,  and  the  sight  of  it  bring  thoughts 
of  healing  and  of  peace.  Blessed  are  the  merci 
ful,  it  would  say  to  the  men  who  glanced  up  at  it 
from  the  narrow  jostling  streets  ;  blessed  are  the 
merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy. 

Midnight  sounded,  but  Dr.  Atwood  did  not  heed. 
After  a  while  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
office,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  lips  com 
pressed  and  the  tuft  of  white  hair  upon  his  chin 
thrown  forward,  as  was  his  wont  when  scheming. 
Now  and  then  he  stopped  at  the  desk,  and  made 
rapid  calculations ;  so  much  for  insurance,  so 
much  for  the  land  on  which  the  Atwood  Works 
had  stood  ;  so  much  for  outlying  investments. 
Yes,  it  could  be  done.  Jedway  had  told  him 
about  a  new  hospital  just  building  in  New  York, 
embodying  the  latest  theories  as  to  hospital  archi 
tecture  ;  Jedway  would  be  a  good  man  to  consult 
about  the  designs.  Perhaps  he  could  let  Craig 
Kennedy  draw  the  plans  ;  or  would  that  be  rather 
rough  on  Craig,  considering  his  half-promise  to 


316  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Craig  about  the  stone  house  for  Sally  ?  No,  if 
Craig  had  the  right  stuff  in  him,  he  would  swallow 
his  disappointment,  and  accept  any  commission 
that  came  to  him.  Five  per  cent,  or  even  three, 
of  the  cost  of  the  House  of  Mercy  would  keep 
Craig  and  Sally  in  bread  and  butter  for  a  long 
time.  And  there  was  no  one  else,  now,  whom  he 
had  need  to  think  of.  Stop  !  There  was  Esther. 
The  Doctor's  brow  contracted.  Surely  he  must 
provide  for  her  in  some  way,  and  yet  to-night,  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  come  to  the  Atwood 
house,  the  Doctor  almost  wished  she  were  not 
there.  She  would  remind  him  perpetually,  now, 
of  an  episode  that  he  longed  to  forget.  His 
yearning  sorrow  over  Tom  seemed  to  bring  him 
no  whit  nearer  to  Esther.  She  was  a  Beaulieu, 
not  an  Atwood  :  the  fact  of  her  mother's  marriage 
to  Pete  Beaulieu  after  she  had  loved  Everett 
seemed  to  degrade  the  woman's  memory  in  the 
Doctor's  eyes.  He  hoped  to  bury  forever  all  that 
pertained  to  Everett,  to  hide  it  away  from  him 
self  and  all  men,  and  let  the  House  of  Mercy  cover 
it.  He  expected  indeed  to  tell  Esther  what  he 
knew  about  her  mother,  but  he  shrank  from  doing 
even  that  at  once.  The  time  would  come,  doubt 
less,  when  he  could  speak  more  easily,  but  at 
present  he  felt  that  there  was  but  one  thing  for 
him  to  do.  He  must  fulfil  the  command  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  never  ceased  to  worship. 
Everything  else  could  wait.  When  the  House  of 


THE  PLATED   CITY  317 

Mercy  was  assured,  he  could  tell  Esther  Beaulieu 
why  he  was  going  to  build  it,  and  there  would  be 
time  enough  then  to  make  some  provision  for  her. 
Of  course  he  must  secure  her  against  want :  he 
could  not  do  less  than  offer  her  a  home,  as  before. 
But  her  grief  for  Tom's  loss  would  not  be  light 
ened  if  she  knew  the  story  of  his  birth.  Clearly 
it  was  best  to  say  nothing  now.  There  was  room 
in  his  old  brain  for  but  one  thing  at  a  time  :  when 
he  had  arranged  for  the  great  reparation,  he  would 
tell  Esther  all.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  fancy  that 
henceforth  he  should  see  in  her  only  her  mother's 
face.  Perhaps  she  would  remain  for  him,  as  be 
fore,  the  unobtrusive  companion,  ministering  to 
him  as  a  daughter  might,  and  never  reminding 
him,  by  any  look  or  movement,  of  that  other 
woman  whom  for  six-and-twenty  years  he  had 
striven  to  forget.  Would  that  it  might  be  so, 
after  all  !  Esther  had  had  no  part  nor  lot  in  the 
dark  fortunes  of  the  Atwood  race.  She  had  come 
innocently,  and  at  the  last,  and  had  brought  into 
the  old  Atwood  house  nothing  but  girlish  beauty 
and  strange  pride  and  gentle  ministrations.  He 
must  treat  her  exactly  as  before.  She  must  not 
suspect,  upon  the  morrow,  that  he  mourned  over 
her  brother  more  than  other  Plated  City  gentle 
men  who  liked  Tom  Beaulieu  and  deplored  his 
fate.  By  and  by,  of  course,  it  would  be  better 
that  she  knew  the  truth.  But  not  now,  not  now. 
And  James  Atwood  put  her  out  of  his  mind, 


818  THE  PLATED   CITY 

and  crept  off  to  bed,  to  dream  of  the  House  of 
Mercy. 

At  breakfast  he  scarcely  looked  her  in  the  eye. 
One  would  have  said  that  he  feared  to  see  a  ghost 
there.  To  cover  his  uneasiness,  he  talked  inces 
santly  about  Dr.  Jedway,  and  recent  feats  of  sur 
gery  of  which  Jedway  had  told  him.  The  girl 
listened  with  a  heavy  heart ;  she  missed  the  sim 
ple  words  of  comfort  which  she  thought  it  would 
have  been  like  Dr.  Atwood  to  speak  to  her.  It 
troubled  her  to  see  him  so  eager  about  surgery, 
to  hear  him  confess  that  his  former  professional 
enthusiasm  had  reawakened  since  Tom's  hurt. 
Could  he  not  see  that  it  pained  her  ?  Why  should 
he  talk  to  her  like  that,  on  this  day,  above  all  ? 

But  the  Doctor  could  think  of  nothing  but  his 
new  scheme.  One  aspect  of  it  after  another  pre 
sented  itself  during  the  hours  of  that  long  forenoon. 
In  the  afternoon,  when  a  few  people  gathered  in 
the  parlor  and  heard  Whitesyde  Trellys  read  the 
burial  service  for  Tom  Beaulieu,  Dr.  Atwood's 
mind  kept  wandering  back  to  the  House  of  Mercy. 
He  was  even  anxious  that  the  service  might  be 
ended,  and  the  body  of  Everett's  boy  laid  away, 
that  he  might  the  sooner  begin  his  expiatory  task  ; 
so  strangely  had  the  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Thayer 
already  wrought  upon  his  imagination.  It  was  of 
the  House  of  Mercy  that  he  was  thinking  as  the 
carriages  filed  slowly  through  the  gates  of  the 
Atwood  place,  and  the  hundreds  of  spectators 


THE  PLATED   CITY  319 

from  the  Flats  fell  in  behind  the  cortege,  to  do 
honor  to  the  dead  ball-player.  Dr.  Atwood's 
friends  thought  it  singular  that  he  should  have 
given  orders  to  have  Beaulieu  buried  in  the  family 
lot,  but  no  more  singular,  after  all,  than  that  he 
should  have  adopted  Beaulieu's  sister.  As  for  the 
crowd  from  the  Flats,  their  sporting  instinct  got 
the  better  of  their  race  prejudice,  and  they  con 
sidered  a  corner  of  the  Atwood  lot  none  too  hon 
orable  a  resting-place  for  the  greatest  ball-player 
of  Connecticut.  "  If  they  knew  the  truth  !  " 
thought  Dr.  Atwood  to  himself.  "  But  they  must 
not  know  it  yet. "  And  he  comforted  himself  with 
the  thought  of  the  House  of  Mercy. 

The  morning  after  the  funeral,  Esther  found  Dr. 
Atwood  starting  for  the  train,  when  she  came 
downstairs. 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York,"  he  explained, 
seeming  to  avoid  her  gaze ;  "  I  have  something  I 
want  to  talk  over  with  Jedway." 


320  THE  PLATED   CITY 


XVII 

A  WEEK  later  Dr.  Atwood  was  seated  in  his 
broad-bottomed  chair  on  the  front  piazza,  waiting 
for  Norman  Lewis.  It  still  lacked  a  quarter  to 
seven.  The  long  day  was  closing  tranquilly.  A 
pair  of  robins  were  diverting  themselves  upon  the 
freshly  mown  lawn  ;  the  young  purple  grackles 
were  squeaking  lustily  in  the  recesses  of  the  pines. 
The  shadow  of  the  Hill  already  stretched  far  along 
Main  Street,  but  the  Atwood  place  lay  in  full  sun 
light  yet,  and  away  beyond  the  broadening,  heavy  - 
foliaged  Mattawanset  Valley,  gleamed  the  shining 
Sound.  From  beneath  the  cliffs,  at  the  Doctor's 
right,  came  the  creaking  of  derricks  and  the  clink 
of  hammers  ;  the  new  machine  shops  were  already 
under  way,  and  the  night  workmen  had  gone  on 
at  six.  Everywhere  over  the  Flats  were  to  be 
seen  the  broken  red  lines  of  brick  walls,  half  built, 
and  white  rows  of  studding.  The  Plated  City 
was  outdoing  herself,  in  a  marvellous  display  of 
energy.  But  the  Doctor's  eye  fell  on  a  dark  tract 
in  the  middle  of  the  Flats,  where  a  gaunt  black 
ened  chimney  marked  the  site  of  the  Atwood 
Works.  Not  a  stroke  of  pickaxe  or  shovel  had 
disturbed  the  silence  there,  and  the  operatives  had 


THE  PLATED   CITY  321 

already  grown  uneasy  over  the  owner's  lack  of 
enterprise.  Yet  Dr.  Atwood  looked  down  at  the 
ruins,  from  his  hilltop,  with  indifference,  almost 
with  elation.  It  seemed  months,  rather  than  days, 
since  he  had  spent  his  strength  down  there  on  the 
Flats  like  the  rest,  finessing  with  workmen,  and 
watching  the  market,  buying  cheaper  and  selling 
dearer  than  younger  and  stronger  men.  It  was 
only  ten  days,  by  the  calendar,  but  he  lived  already 
in  another  world.  Spread  out  upon  his  office  desk 
were  the  papers  and  memoranda  relative  to  the 
plan  that  now  engrossed  him.  They  needed  sim 
ply  to  be  put  into  legal  form  and  properly  wit 
nessed,  to  make  the  House  of  Mercy  as  established 
a  fact  as  if  its  walls  were  then  before  his  eyes.  A 
half-hour's  talk  with  Norman  Lewis,  a  few  min 
utes'  writing,  and  the  thing  would  be  done,  and  he 
could  sleep.  He  had  not  slept  well  for  the  past 
week;  by  day  and  night  his  head  had  been  too  full 
of  fancies.  But  henceforward  he  felt  that  every 
thing  would  be  well.  He  pulled  out  his  watch 
again.  In  five  minutes  the  lawyer  ought  to  be 
there. 

At  that  moment  Lewis  had  entered  the  gate  and 
was  slowly  approaching  the  house.  For  a  week 
he  had  kept  away,  though  the  temptation  to  see 
Esther  Beaulieu  had  at  times  almost  overmastered 
him.  Now  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the 
Atwood  house  on  a  professional  errand,  however, 
he  had  a  virtuous  sense  that  he  deserved  to  catch 


322  THE  PLATED   CITY 

sight  of  Miss  Beaulieu,  as  a  reward  for  his  self- 
control.  And  yet  he  satirized  himself  sharply 
for  allowing  a  place  in  his  mind  to  such  a  theory 
of  compensation.  What  business  was  it  of  his 
that  her  face  singled  her  out  from  other  women, 
or  whether  Dr.  Atwood  were  really  bent,  after 
all,  upon  an  old  man's  folly?  Thus  meditating, 
though  without  very  satisfactory  answers,  Lewis 
turned  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Mr.  Lewis,"  called  a  voice  from  the  vine- 
covered  side  porch.  It  was  almost  a  whisper, 
but  it  vibrated  like  a  bell.  The  lawyer  turned, 
raising  his  hat.  She  beckoned  to  him  through 
the  vines,  and  he  crossed  the  greensward,  and 
met  her  at  the  steps.  Never  had  she  seemed  so 
tall;  her  black  gown,  with  a  tiny  deep-red  rose 
from  the  Atwood  garden  fastened  at  the  throat, 
emphasized  the  singular  purity  of  her  complexion; 
her  eyes,  in  the  evening  light,  were  almost  a  violet. 
A  white  shawl  that  had  been  around  her  shoulders 
had  fallen  back  upon  the  chair  as  she  had  risen, 
and  her  fingers  were  still  between  the  leaves  of  a 
French  book  from  the  Library. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
eager  voice.  "  Dr.  Atwood  told  me  you  were 
coming." 

Lewis  stood  gazing  at  her,  awkwardly.  He 
had  in  spite-  of  himself  forgotten,  in  those  seven 
days,  that  she  was  quite  so  beautiful.  She  drew 
the  light  wicker  chair  toward  him.  The  lawyer 


THE  PLATED   CITY  323 

seated  himself  upon  the  top  step,  almost  at  her 
feet.  She  bent  nearer  yet,  with  a  swift  glance 
behind  her. 

"  Is  Dr.  Atwood  in  trouble  ?  "  she  demanded. 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know. 
Why  ?  "  he  answered. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  dissatisfaction,  and  her 
eyes  clouded.  "  I  thought  you  would  know,"  she 
said.  "He  depends  so  much  upon  you." 

"Very  little,"  replied  Lewis.  "Dr.  Atwood 
has  always  depended  upon  Dr.  Atwood.  But 
why  do  you  think  he  is  in  trouble  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  and  he  thought  he  detected  a 
deeper  color  in  her  cheeks.  "  He  has  scarcely 
spoken  to  me  since  my  brother  died,"  she  said  at 
length.  "  He  does  not  seem  to  wish  to  look  at  me 
any  more.  Twice  he  has  been  to  New  York,  and 
when  he  comes  back  he  shuts  himself  in  the  office, 
and  does  not  come  out.  He  has  seemed  so  old, 
since  the  fire.  I  thought  perhaps  he  had  lost  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  it  would  not  be  wrong 
if  I  asked  you  about  it."  Miss  Beaulieu  paused, 
toying  nervously  with  the  book  in  her  lap. 

Lewis  was  studying  her  face.  "  No,"  he  said, 
in  an  absent-minded  way,  "  I  think  he  lost  very 
little,  if  anything.  He  was  heavily  insured." 

"  Then,"  said  the  girl,  wistfully,  "  it  is  some 
thing  about  me.  He  has  done  so  much  for  me, 
and  I  am  so  grateful  to  him,  but  he  will  not  let 
me  show  it.  He  does  not  even  wish  me  to  read 


324  THE  PLATED   CITY 

aloud.     He   seems  so  troubled,  and  I  would   do 
anything  for  him,  anything!  " 

The  unreasoning  jealousy  that  had  stung  Lewis 
once  before  pricked  suddenly  at  his  heart. 
"  Would  you  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  tone  that  was 
dry,  almost  bitter.  She  did  not  perceive  his 
mood. 

•"Of  course!"  she  cried.  "Why  not!  Think 
of  what  he  did  for  me  last  autumn,  when  they 
would  have  driven  me  from  the  Works!  Shall 
I  forget  how  Dr.  Atwood  gave  me  his  arm,  and 
led  me  through  that  crowd  that  hated  me,  as  if  I 
had  been  his  own  daughter  ?  Oh,  but  I  was 
proud  ;  prouder  than  Marie  Antoinette  in  the 
picture ;  I  shall  not  forget  that  day  !  And  think 
how  good  he  has  been  to  me  ever  since,  and  the 
beautiful  home  he  has  given  me,  and  —  and  — " 
her  eyes  filled  — "  how  kind  he  was  to  Tom ! 
Do  you  know,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  dropping  her 
voice  still  lower,  "  I  think  no  one  imagines  how 
much  Dr.  Atwood  mourns  for  my  brother.  When 
I  have  begun  to  speak  of  Tom,  he  has  stopped  me, 
and  would  not  let  me  go  on.  Twice  he  has  gone 
alone  to  the  place  where  Tom  is  buried.  I  met 
him  going  in,  once,  when  I  was  coming  away. 
And  yet  he  does  not  talk  with  me  any  more ;  he 
seems  to  wish  I  were  not  here.  I  can  feel  it.  I 
know  what  he  thinks,  when  he  does  not  say  a 
word.  Can  you  not  tell  me  what  is  troubling 
him  ?  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  go  away  ?  I 


THE  PLATED   CITY  325 

would  do  anything  you  would  say,  to  make  him 
happy,  anything  in  the  world." 

"  Would  you  marry  him  ?  "  demanded  Norman 
Lewis. 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  the  moment  after. 
He  knew  that  he  had  no  right  to  ask  her  that ; 
it  was  brutal  —  but  he  was  jealous.  For  an  in 
stant  there  was  a  startled  silence.  His  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  the  old-fashioned  rose  at 
the  girl's  throat ;  he  dared  look  no  higher.  She 
caught  her  breath  ;  he  looked  up,  and  saw  the 
blood  rush  into  her  face,  as  she  lifted  her  head 
haughtily.  For  one  moment  she  held  herself  so, 
shy,  hurt,  aloof,  half -risen  from  her  chair  ;  then 
her  girlish  sense  of  the  ridiculous  asserted  itself, 
and  her  eyes  shone  into  his  with  surprise,  embar 
rassment,  comradeship,  mirth,  curiously  mingled, 
as  she  gasped,  with  an  adorable  little  gesture  of 
incredulity  :  — 

"I  —  marry —  old  —  Dr.  Atwood  ?  " 

There  was  an  almost  noiseless  footstep  behind 
her,  and  James  Atwood,  impatient  of  Lewis's  tar 
diness,  appeared  at  the  side  door.  The  girl  did 
not  notice  him.  The  book  had  slipped  from  her 
lap  to  the  piazza  floor,  and  as  she  bent  toward 
it,  the  rose  which  she  had  carelessly  thrust  into 
her  bosom  fell  across  the  book.  The  lawyer  was 
quicker  than  she  in  stooping,  and  restored  both  to 
her  in  an  instant,  murmuring  something  which  she 
did  not  catch.  She  took  the  Daudet,  with  a  smile, 


326  THE  PLATED   CITY 

but  seemed  to  recall  herself  as  he  held  out  the  tiny 
rose,  and  exclaimed,  in  self-reproach,  — 

"  Oh,  how  could  I  have  worn  that  !  What 
would  Tom  think  of  me  !  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  doing  when  I  picked  it.  Please  throw  it 
away  !  " 

At  that  moment,  as  he  stood,  with  the  rose  in 
his  fingers,  helpless  before  the  sudden  outburst 
of  contrition  which  had  followed  upon  that  in 
toxicating  moment  of  self -revelation,  Lewis  caught 
sight  of  the  figure  in  the  doorway.  He  blushed  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair.  Seeing  his  confusion,  Esther 
Beaulieu  turned,  and  beheld  the  Doctor  peering 
narrowly  at  the  pair  of  them.  With  a  single  ex 
clamation  of  consternation,  —  and  a  French  one  at 
that,  —  the  girl  snatched  up  her  shawl  and  dis 
appeared  ;  how  or  whither  neither  of  the  two  men 
could  have  told.  Dr.  Atwood  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  What  was  that  about  '  old  Dr.  Atwood '  ?  "  he 
demanded,  half  jocosely.  "  I  didn't  hear  the  first 
part  of  the  sentence." 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  younger  man.  "  I  asked 
a  foolish  question,  that  was  all." 

"  That  was  enough,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I 
thought  you  didn't  run  much  to  foolishness, 
Lewis  ?  Eh  ? "  He  was  eying  him  keenly. 
"  Well,  its  seven-three  ;  suppose  we  go  in." 

The  lawyer  followed  him  down  the  gloomy  hall 
way,  without  having  thrown  away  Esther  Beau- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  327 

lieu's  rose.  As  they  entered  the  office,  he  fastened 
it  swiftly  into  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  The  Doctor 
motioned  him  to  a  chair  by  the  desk,  and  placed 
himself  comfortably  in  his  accustomed  seat.  He 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  begin  the  business  upon 
which  he  had  summoned  the  lawyer,  now  that  the 
office  door  was  closed  behind  them.  He  wiped  his 
spectacles  deliberately,  chatted  for  two  or  three 
minutes  about  one  of  the  new  blocks  down  town, 
and  then,  crossing  his  legs,  and  settling  himself 
deeper  in  his  chair,  he  took  up  a  faded  little  book, 
which  was  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  paper-strewn 
desk. 

"  Did  I  ever  show  you  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lewis  put  out  his  hand  for  it.  It  was  Mammon 
by  Harris.  "  I  picked  it  up  one  night,"  said  he, 
"  but  I  think  I  didn't  read  it  long."  He  was 
turning  the  pages  curiously,  in  search  of  the 
lurid  sentence  that  had  previously  caught  his 
eye.  He  failed  to  find  it,  and  went  back  to  the 
beginning. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it? "  demanded  Dr. 
At  wood. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  the  prefatory  note," 
said  the  lawyer,  sarcastically.  "  Look  at  this  ! 
'  A  premium  of  One  Hundred  Guineas,  offered 
by  J.  T.  Conquest,  Esq.,  M.  D.  F.  L.  S.,  was 
awarded  to  this  incomparable  Treatise  by  the 
Hon.  and  Rev.  Baptist  W.  Noel  and  the  Rev. 
Dr.  John  Pye  Smith,  near  London ;  and  em- 


328  THE  PLATED   CITY 

ployed  by  the  Author  in  the  cause  of  benevo 
lence.'  There's  a  sweet  humility  about  that, 
now,  isn't  there  !  " 

The  Doctor  looked  rather  uncomfortable. 
"Well,"  he  admitted,  "I  should  have  thought 
full  as  much  of  Harris  if  he  hadn't  put  that  in. 
But  I  guess  you'd  call  it  a  good  treatise,  all  the 
same.  My  mother  gave  me  that  book,  to  read 
Sundays.  Miss  Beaulieu  and  I  have  been  read 
ing  it  for  a  spell,  along  back,  and  to-day  I  ran 
across  a  good  thing  in  it,  'way  on  the  last  page. 
Let  me  take  it." 

Lewis  handed  over  the  incomparable  treatise, 
wondering  at  the  Doctor's  simplicity  of  heart. 

"  There,"  said  Dr.  Atwood,  holding  the  open 
page  toward  the  western  window,  "  what's  the 
matter  with  this?  'And  now,  Christian,  what 
shall  be  the  practical  effect  of  the  truths  which 
have  been  made  to  pass  before  you  ?  Have  you, 
while  reading  the  preceding  pages,  felt  a  single 
emotion  of  benevolence  warm  and  expand  your 
heart  ?  Instantly  gratify  it.  Is  your  benevolence 
destitute  of  plan  ?  Then,  unless  you  can  gainsay 
what  we  have  advanced  on  the  necessity  of  sys 
tem,  lose  no  time  in  devising  one.'  Isn't  that  about 
right?" 

"Excellent,"  laughed  Lewis,  "if  you  have  the 
cash  on  hand.  For  a  man  in  my  financial  cir 
cumstances,  however  — ' ' 

Dr.    Atwood   interrupted   him,   unheeding   his 


THE  PLATED   CITY  329 

raillery.  "  That's  what  I've  got,  Lewis !  "  he 
cried,  striking  his  fist  on  the  edge  of  the  desk. 
u  I've  got  the  cash  on  hand,  and  I've  devised  the 
plan.  I  want  you  to  put  it  into  execution,  here 
and  now." 

The  lawyer  sobered  instantly.  "  I  am  at  your 
service,  Doctor,"  he  said.  "Can  it  be  about 
Esther  Beaulieu?"  he  thought  to  himself.  He 
grew  hot  at  the  thought  of  his  folly  in  having 
fancied  that  Dr.  Atwood  was  going  to  gratify 
the  gossip  of  Main  Street. 

" '  Old  Dr.  Atwood  ?  '  "  The  girl  could  be  de 
pended  upon,  even  if  the  Doctor  could  not. 
But  it  must  have  something  to  do  with  her. 

Dr.  Atwood  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  Lewis," 
he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  do  something  that  will  give 
pleasure  to  a  woman  who  is  the  best  woman  I  ever 
knew,  except  my  mother  ;  something  that  would 
please  my  mother,  too,  if  she  were  alive,  more 
than  anything  her  boy  could  do.  I'm  going  to 
build  a  hospital  here  on  the  old  place,  and  call 
it  the  House  of  Mercy." 

"  I  see,"  said  Lewis.  He  felt  a  sudden  lack  of 
interest  in  the  Doctor's  plans. 

"  It's  been  on  my  mind  a  good  deal  lately.  I 
shall  feel  easier  to  have  it  put  into  proper  shape, 
so  as  to  have  no  doubt  about  it.  I  don't  suppose 
a  young  fellow  like  you,  now,  knows  what  it  is  to 
have  something  on  his  mind,  eh  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 


330  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so,"  said  the  elder  man.  "  We're 
all  pretty  much  alike.  Some  of  us  have  to  take 
our  medicine  when  we're  young,  and  some  when 
we're  old." 

"And  some  all  the  time,"  corrected  Norman 
Lewis. 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  the  House  of  Mercy  ?  " 

"It's  needed  enough,"  said  the  lawyer,  drily. 
"  There's  nothing  of  the  sort  for  twenty  miles  up 
and  down  the  Valley.  If  you  could  put  a  sick 
man  under  a  porte-cochere,  now,  or  a  barn-cupola, 
the  Plated  City  could  look  after  him  very  well. 
Yes,  a  hospital  would  be  a  good  thing.  I  may 
want  to  go  there  myself,  Doctor,  in  my  old  age. 
Would  there  be  a  ward  for  broken-down  law 
yers?"  Then  he  changed  his  tone.  "About  how 
much  money  do  you  think  of  putting  into  it?  "  he 
asked,  resuming  his  ordinary  manner. 

"  All  I  have,"  said  James  Atwood,  quietly.  "  I 
want  to  reserve  simply  enough  to  live  on,  for  me 
—  and  for  Esther  Beaulieu." 

The  lawyer  looked  up  with  a  start.  "For 
Esther  Beaulieu?"  he  repeated,  almost  uncon 
sciously. 

Dr.  Atwood  nodded,  eying  him  steadily.  "What 
do  you  think  of  Miss  Beaulieu  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lewis  did  not  meet  his  gaze.  "  She  is  a  very 
lovely  girl,"  he  said.  "  It  seems  strange  to  think 
of  her  as  Tom  Beaulieu's  sister." 


THE  PLATED    CITY  331 

"  Why  ?  "  demanded  Dr.  Atwood,  almost  fiercely. 
"  What  was  there  against  Tom  Beaulieu  ?  " 

"Nothing  but  his  birth,"  replied  Lewis,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  And  about  that,  you  know  as  much 
as  I." 

The  sudden  look  in  the  elder  man's  eyes  sur 
prised  him.  "  And  a  good  deal  more,  Norman 
Lewis,"  whispered  Dr.  Atwood  hoarsely;  "  a  good 
deal  more."  He  rose  with  some  effort,  while 
Lewis  watched  him  wonderingly,  crossed  the 
room  to  the  western  window,  and  drew  down  the 
worn  shade.  Then  he  came  back  to  the  desk,  and 
lighted  the  student  lamp,  still  speaking  no  word. 
Lewis  stared  silently  at  the  legal  blanks  that 
covered  the  desk. 

"Look  here,  Lewis,"  broke  out  the  Doctor,  "it's 
no  use.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  first  as  last, 
though  I  didn't  know  whether  I  should  or  not, 
to-night.  I  want  everybody  to  know  it  some 
time,  but  now  nobody  knows  it  except  me."  He 
hesitated,  his  face  working  painfully.  "What 
would  you  say,"  he  burst  out  finally,  "  if  I  told 
you  that  Tom  Beaulieu  was  my  own  brother's 
boy?" 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  Lewis  gasped  stupidly.  His 
brain  seemed  to  refuse  to  act. 

"  My  brother's  boy,"  repeated  the  Doctor,  with 
a  long  sigh,  "  the  son  of  a  woman  whom  he  mar 
ried  in  Louisiana  three  weeks  before  he  fell.  You 
knew  about  my  brother  Everett  ?  " 


332  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Lewis  caught  at  the  name  ;  his  brain  played 
now  like  lightning.  "  Everett  Atwood  ?"  It  was 
the  name  he  had  seen  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  book,  the 
night  Tom  Beaulieu  died.  And  was  not  "  Mr. 
Everett "  the  husband  for  whom  Esther's  mother 
fancied  she  was  searching  ? 

"  I  have  barely  heard  of  him,"  he  answered 
with  an  effort  to  speak  calmly.  "  I  knew  you  had 
a  brother  in  the  war." 

"  And  on  the  rebel  side,  though  you  don't  say 
that,"  said  James  Atwood,  drearily.  "  And  all 
these  years  he  had  a  son  living,  and  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  did  not  find  out  who  Tom  Beaulieu 
was  till  he  was  dead." 

"  And  then  ?  "  queried  Lewis. 

"Then  I  knew  who  he  was  only  because  he 
looked  like  Everett,  as  he  lay  there.  There  was 
no  one  else,  except  Everett's  son,  who  could  have 
looked  like  that." 

Norman  Lewis  pitied  him.  "  You  have  no 
other  proof  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head.  "  That's  all  I  had 
to  go  by  when  I  told  you  to  have  him  buried  in 
the  Atwood  lot,"  he  said  steadily.  "  I  knew  that 
Everett  had  married,  but  I  supposed  his  wife  had 
disappeared.  They  told  me  so.  You  see  it  was 
considered  a  disgraceful  sort  of  thing  down  there, 
for  him  to  marry  that  sort  of  woman.  Perhaps 
they  wanted  to  spare  my  feelings  and  hush  it  up. 
But  she  must  have  come  North  ;  she  must  have 
come  here  to  Barton  vale." 


THE  PLATED    CITY  333 

"  She  did,"  thought  Lewis  to  himself.  "  Shall 
I  tell  him  ?  "  — "  Does  Esther  Beaulieu  know 
this  ? "  he  inquired.  His  pulse  was  pounding 
terribly  fast. 

"Not  a  word,"  said  James  Atwood.  "Not  a 
word." 

"  Why  ?  "  ventured  Lewis. 

"  I  can't  tell  her  yet,"  groaned  the  old  man. 
"  I  can't  bear  to.  Some  day  she  will  have  to 
know.  Perhaps  I  can  get  you  to  tell  her.  But 
not  till  the  House  of  Mercy  is  a  sure  thing.  Don't 
you  see  now  why  I  want  to  build  it  ?  It'll  cover 
up  hard  thoughts  about  the  Atwood  boys ;  how 
one  of  them  was  a  rebel,  and  the  other  didn't 
look  out  for  his  brother's  son.  Plated  City  folks 
will  say  :  '  There's  the  House  of  Mercy,  after  all ; 
the  Atwoods'  good  money  went  into  that,  plenty 
of  it,  and  it'll  make  up  for  a  good  deal.'  Then 
there's  one  other  way  of  looking  at  it,  Lewis. 
After  all,  I  have  no  proof  except  my  own  eyes. 
Sometimes  during  the  last  six  days  I  have  thought 
to  myself:  Jim  Atwood,  why  weren't  you  mis 
taken  ?  A  man's  senses  may  deceive  him.  There 
are  plenty  of  cases  in  the  medical  books  to  prove 
that.  And  I  don't  know  —  positively  know  "  — 
he  dwelt  piteously  on  the  words  —  "  that  the  man 
we  buried  in  the  Atwood  lot  was  an  Atwood.  I 
believe  he  was  ;  but  don't  you  see,  the  House  of 
Mercy  gives  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt?  It 
kind  o'  says  to  me,  'Never  mind,  Jim  Atwood, 


334  THE  PLATED    CITY 

you've  done  the  best  you  knew  how.  Never  mind 
whether  you've  been  fooled  or  not.  There  ain't 
any  mistake  about  me.  My  walls'll  stand  here  as 
long  as  the  Mattawanset  River  runs,  and  you  can 
be  sure  that  Bartonvale  people  won't  forget  to 
say :  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy.'  I  guess  mercy's  what  we  want,  Lewis, 
all  of  us." 

"  Is  it  not  better  not  to  tell  him  ? "  thought 
Norrnan  Lewis.  "Would  it  not  be  kinder  to 
let  him  think  there  was  a  chance  of  his  being 
mistaken  ?  " 

"  I've  been  down  in  New  York,"  went  on  Dr. 
Atwood,  more  quietly,  "  talking  with  Jedway.  He 
has  some  good  ideas.  I  went  around  with  him  for 
two  or  three  days ;  it  made  me  almost  wish  I'd 
never  gone  over  to  Silver  Plate.  Surgery  is  a 
great  profession,  and  Jedway  is  at  the  top  of  it  in 
New  York,  they  all  tell  me.  Well,  Jedway  has 
helped  me  draw  up  a  plan  of  this  hospital.  He 
thinks  Craig  Kennedy,  or  any  other  likely  young 
fellow,  could  put  it  into  shape.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  a  deed  of  gift,  naming  my  trustees, 
would  be  the  right  sort  of  thing,  legally.  I  told 
him  I  didn't  want  to  run  any  risks.  Last  fall, 
you  know,  Lewis,  I  had  a  time  of  being  a  little 
anxious  about  myself.  But  Jedway  looked  me 
over  Wednesday,  and  says  I'm  good  for  ten  years 
more,  and  possibly  fifteen.  Still  I  don't  want  to 
run  any  chances.  Suppose  you  look  at  those 


THE  PLATED   CITY  335 

papers  and  see  if  they  are  drawn  up  to  suit  the 
Connecticut  law." 

For  ten  minutes  not  a  word  was  spoken.  The 
Doctor  sat  with  eyes  closed  and  hands  clasped 
around  one  knee,  as  Lewis  scrutinized  the  docu 
ments.  They  were  carefully  drawn,  the  work  of 
a  better  lawyer  than  himself,  he  decided,  though 
he  thought  they  should  be  altered  here  and  there. 
He  was  forced  to  wonder,  as  often  before,  at  the 
energy  and  mastery  of  detail  with  which  the  auto 
crat  of  the  Plated  City  had  carried  through  his 
scheme.  But  while  Lewis's  brain  was  busy  with 
searching  for  flaws  in  the  legal  phrases  before  his 
eye,  his  imagination  was  elsewhere.  So  Tom 
Beaulieu's  mother  had  been  Everett  Atwood's 
wife  !  And  she  was  Esther's  mother  too  !  What 
had  the  Doctor  meant  by  saying  "  that  sort  of  a 
woman"  ? 

He  broke  the  silence  at  last,  with  a  technical 
comment  upon  one  of  the  clauses  of  the  deed  of 
gift.  The  Doctor  was  by  his  side  instantly,  and 
together  they  went  over  the  papers  once  more. 
They  were  wellnigh  perfect ;  five  minutes'  writ 
ing,  with  the  affixing  of  the  proper  signatures,  and 
the  House  of  Mercy  would  be  an  established  fact. 

The  exact  sum  to  be  devoted  to  the  purpose 
still  required  some  discussion,  in  the  light  of  the 
probable  outcome  of  the  suit  which  Lewis  had  for 
many  months  been  pressing  in  Dr.  Atwood's  name. 
The  Doctor  sat  down  again,  speaking  with  his  old 


336  THE  PLATED   CITY 

shrewdness  and  force.  He  seemed  to  be  five  years 
younger,  now  that  he  had  shared  his  secret. 

"Exactly,"  said  Lewis,  in  reply  to  one  of  his 
statements  ;  "  but  if  you  are  to  reserve  enough  for 
a  living  income  for  yourself  —  and  for  Miss  Beau- 
lieu,"  he  added  after  the  slightest  pause. 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Dr.  Atwood,  nodding,  "  of 
course  I  can't  see  that  girl  lack  for  anything  now. 
But  do  you  know,  there's  something  queer  about 
that,  Lewis.  Ever  since  —  well,  ever  since  Jed- 
way  performed  that  operation,  I  haven't  wanted 
to  look  Esther  in  the  face.  I  guess  she  must  have 
noticed  it.  I  can't  help  it.  It's  like  seeing  her 
mother,  all  over  again.  I've  wanted  to  keep  out 
of  her  way,  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Perhaps," 
he  added  wistfully,  "  I  shall  feel  differently  about 
it  now.  She's  done  everything  to  make  the  old 
Atwood  house  cheerful,  since  last  October.  She's 
a  nice  girl,  and  a  brainy  girl.  It  ain't  her  fault 
that  Everett  married  her  mother,  and  yet,  I  sort  o' 
lay  it  up  against  her.  Don't  you  suppose  it'll  be 
different,  as  soon  as  I  tell  her  that  Tom  was  Ever 
ett's  boy  ?  " 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Lewis,  absently.  "  Then 
you  have  seen  her  mother?"  he  added,  with  a 
directness  that  was  quite  involuntary. 

"  Once,"  said  Dr.  Atwood,  closing  his  eyes 
dreamily,  "  only  once.  But  before  God  that  was 
enough.  She  didn't  see  me.  She  sat  with  Ever 
ett's  head  in  her  lap,  as  he  was  dying,  down  in 


THE  PLATED   CITY  337 

Louisiana.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her,  he  never 
would  have  stayed  there ;  he  might  have  been 
here  in  Barton  vale  to-day." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "  Was  it  true  that 
she  was  white?  "  demanded  Lewis. 

Dr.  Atwood  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  Don't 
ask  me.  Everett  thought  so.  There  are  letters 
there  in  the  safe  which  he  wrote  about  her.  She 
claimed  to  be  a  French  Creole,  and  gave  him  names 
and  dates  to  prove  it.  He  sent  them  on  ;  I  guess 
he  must  have  believed  her.  But  people  there 
who  knew  her  said  otherwise.  That  wasn't  all 
they  said,  either.  But  what's  the  use  of  raking  up 
old  stories  now  ?  That's  what  I  want  the  House 
of  Mercy  for,  don't  you  see  ?  It  says  :  '  Shut  up  ; 
don't  ask  any  questions  about  the  Atwood  boys 
from  now  on.  Let  'em  alone  till  the  Day  of  Judg 
ment.'" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lewis,  slowly,  "but  has  not  Esther 
Beaulieu  a  right  to  know  whatever  is  to  be  known 
about  her  mother  ?  It  was  worry  about  the  color 
line  that  drove  Tom  Beaulieu  to  his  doom.  If  he 
had  known  what  you  might  perhaps  have  been 
able  to  tell  him,  he  could  have  made  good  his 
claim  to  equality."  He  paused,  realizing  how  his 
words  must  pain  the  elder  man. 

"Don't!"  cried  Atwood.  "  How  could  I 
know  !  I  never  saw  him,  to  my  knowledge, 
except  once.  I  may  be  all  wrong  now  ;  I  have 
nothing  to  go  by  except  resemblances.  But  don't 


338  THE  PLATED   CIT? 

you  see  I'm  doing  the  best  I  can  to  make  up  for 
what's  past?  I'm  taking  every  chance.  If  I 
knew  that  Esther  Beaulieu  was  the  child  of  that 
woman  whom  Everett  married,  I  would  tell  her 
every  word  that  Everett  ever  wrote  me.  I  meant 
to  tell  her  anyway,  before  long.  I've  been  plan 
ning  in  the  dark,  Lewis  :  and  there's  been  nobody 
to  help  me,  except  one  woman.  She  told  me  to 
build  the  House  of  Mercy.  I've  had  to  think  of 
that  first,  and  everything  else  afterward." 

"  I  must  tell  him  what  I  know,"  thought  Lewis. 
"  I  am  wronging  Esther  if  I  do  not."  —  "  If  there 
were  any  proof,"  said  the  lawyer,  his  eyes  on  the 
table,  "that  Tom  Beaulreu's  mother  and  the 
woman  your  brother  married  were  the  same  per 
son,  would  it  make  you  any  happier  as  regards 
Esther  Beaulieu  ?  Would  you  think  more  kindly, 
—  I  know  that  you  will  do  what  is  kind,  —  but 
would  you  think  more  kindly  of  her,  and  of  her 
mother  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  there  is  proof  ? "  exclaimed 
James  At  wood. 

"  No  positive  proof,  perhaps,"  said  the  lawyer, 
cautiously,  "  but  I  have  reason  to  know  that  in 
certain  times  of  mental  disturbance,  apparently, 
Tom  Beaulieu's  mother  told  her  neighbors  that 
her  husband  lived  here  in  Bartonvale,  and  that  his 
name  was  Mr.  Everett." 

Dr.  Atwood  started  to  his  feet.  "  You  know 
that  ? "  he  cried  hoarsely.  Lewis  nodded.  He 


THE  PLATED   CITY  339 

did  not  say  how  he  had  learned  it.  His  eyes 
shone  with  excitement.  The  Doctor  took  two  or 
three  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  without  speak 
ing.  Then  he  paused  in  front  of  the  younger 
man,  and  put  out  his  hand,  with  a  touching  sim 
plicity. 

"  Thank  you,  Lewis.  That  was  the  name  she 
knew  him  by."  The  Doctor's  face  was  ashy.  "  I 
shall  want  to  talk  that  all  over  with  you,  in  a  day 
or  two,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment,  speaking 
with  evident  effort.  "And  I  shall  have  a  talk 
with  Esther  to-morrow.  But  I  find  myself  rather 
tired  now,  and  I  should  like  to  have  the  other 
matter  finished.  Suppose  you  alter  those  clauses, 
and  I  will  sign  it,  and  have  it  off  my  hands." 

"  We  need  witnesses  to  the  signature,"  sug 
gested  Lewis,  seating  himself  at  the  desk. 

"I  will  call  in  Roberts  and  his  wife,"  replied 
Dr.  Atwood,  quietly. 

By  the  time  Lewis  was  ready,  the  coachman  and 
his  scared-looking  wife,  summoned  from  her  bread- 
making  in  the  tiny  kitchen  over  the  stable,  had 
entered  the  office.  The  formalities  required  but  a 
moment,  and  Dr.  Atwood  and  the  lawyer  were 
again  alone. 

The  Doctor  spoke  first.  "  Suppose  you  put 
that  in  your  safe  down  town,"  he  said  in  an  off 
hand  tone,  as  Lewis  slipped  a  rubber  band  around 
the  deed  of  gift. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Lewis. 


840  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Let's  see  ;  to-morrow  I'd  like  you  to  meet  that 
insurance  adjuster  with  me." 

"  Any  day  but  to-morrow.  I've  got  to  go  up 
to  Simsbury  to  trace  a  title.  The  day  after  ?  " 

"That'll  do  as  well." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  That's  all,  is  it,  Doctor  ?  " 
inquired  the  younger  man. 

"  Everything,"  replied  Dr.  Atwood.  "  No,  there 
is  something  else.  I  wish  you  would  stop  at  Mrs. 
Thayer's  house,  on  the  way  home,  and  tell  her 
what  we've  done." 

Lewis  nodded.  He  had  not  known  who  the 
woman  was  who  had  suggested  the  House  of 
Mercy  to  the  Doctor,  but  he  had  suspected  it  was 
Mrs.  Thayer. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  heard  from  Sally,"  mused 
the  Doctor.  "  Sally  has  a  good  husband,  eh  ? 
You  don't  think  Craig  will  take  it  too  hard  that 
I'm  not  going  to  build  a  house  for  Sally,  after  all  ? 
You  know  I  thought  of  that,  one  spell." 

"  Not  if  I  know  Craig  Kennedy,"  replied  Lewis, 
loyally.  "  Craig  can  look  after  himself.  He'll 
live  in  a  good  house  some  day,  of  his  own  earning. 
It  won't  hurt  him  to  wait." 

The  Doctor  listened  approvingly.  "  Glad  to 
hear  you  say  so,  Lewis.  I  think  a  great  deal  of 
that  little  girl.  I  meant  to  do  something  first-rate 
for  her,  but  her  mother  thought  this  other  scheme 
was  best.  Lewis,  I  wish  you  knew  how  much 
easier  I  feel,  now  that  this  is  settled.  Look  here!  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  341 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  flinging  open  the  door 
of  his  safe,  returned  with  a  thin  bundle  of  letters. 
"Twenty-six  years,  Norman  Lewis,  those  letters 
have  lain  in  my  safe,  and  they've  troubled  me  all 
the  while.  They're  about  the  girl's  mother,  you 
know,  —  her  story  about  her  family,  and  all  that; 
I  didn't  get  them  till  months  after  Everett  was 
dead,  and  I've  never  shown  them  to  a  soul.  I 
don't  want  them  here  any  longer.  I'm  going  to 
let  the  House  of  Mercy  cover  everything  up.  I'm 
not  going  to  keep  any  reminder  of  what's  dead 
and  done  with,  now.  It  was  all  for  the  best,  I 
suppose;  yet  think  of  it  !  While  I  used  to  sit 
here  and  read  those  letters  and  wonder  how 
Everett  could  have  married  her,  the  woman  was 
living  down  there  on  Nigger  Hill !  I've  had  to 
take  my  medicine,  Lewis.  I  believe  it's  made  an 
old  man  of  me,  in  the  last  six  days!  But  never 
mind  that.  It's  over  now.  From  now  on  I've 
got  no  quarrel  with  any  one,  and  nothing  to  plan 
for,  and  nothing  to  hide.  I'm  going  to  make  a 
clean  sweep.  See  ?  " 

With  an  excitement  that  gave  his  tread  almost 
the  firmness  of  youth,  he  stepped  to  the  wide  fire 
place.  Jerking  open  the  knot  that  fastened 
together  the  letters,  he  tossed  them  one  by  one 
upon  the  heap  of  ashes.  Then  he  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  a  match.  Norman  Lewis  caught  his 
arm.  The  Doctor  turned  in  surprise. 

"  Dr.    Atwood,"  stammered  the  lawyer,   "  you 


342  THE  PLATED   CITY 

are  sure  that  isn't  a  mistake  ?  If  those  letters 
are  about  Esther  Beaulieu's  mother,  —  ought  she 
not  to  know  what  is  in  them  ?  " 

"  Didn't  I  say  I  should  tell  her  to-morrow  ? " 
retorted  Dr.  Atwood,  sharply.  "  Whose  letters 
are  they  ?  " 

Lewis  was  silent. 

"  There  are  things  there  that  she  ought  not  to 
see,"  said  the  Doctor,  more  gently.  "  It's  better 
to  know  too  little  than  too  much,  Lewis." 

"That  depends,"  said  Lewis. 

The  Doctor  struck  a  match  without  replying, 
and  in  silence  the  two  men  watched  the  letters 
of  Everett  Atwood  flare  and  shrivel  into  nothing 
ness. 

"There,"  exclaimed  James  Atwood,  as  the  last 
spark  faded,  "I  shall  sleep  like  a  top  to-night. 
I'll  have  a  talk  with  Esther  to-morrow,  Lewis,"  he 
added  kindly.  "  It'll  be  all  right." 

He  went  to  the  front  door  with  the  lawyer, 
and  they  stood  a  moment  listening  to  the  clinking 
hammers  beneath  the  cliffs,  where  the  new  ma 
chine  shops  were  rising,  in  the  quiet  June  night. 

"  The  Plated  City  is  a  great  place,  isn't  it  ? " 
said  Dr.  Atwood.  "  Good  night  !  " 

"When  Lewis  rang  the  door  bell  of  the  tiny 
white  house  on  the  Green  and  asked  if  he  might 
see  Mrs.  Thayer,  the  trained  nurse  who  was  filling 
Sally's  place  demurred.  Mrs.  Thayer  had  not 


THE  PLATED   CITY  343 

been  quite  so  well  for  a  day  or  two,  and  besides, 
letters  had  just  come  from  Craig  and  Sally,  writ 
ten  at  Denver,  and  the  perusal  of  them  had  given 
the  invalid  excitement  enough  for  that  evening. 
But  Lewis  pencilled  a  note,  nevertheless,  to  the 
effect  that  Dr.  Atwood  had  decided  to  build  a 
hospital  on  the  Hill,  and  wished  her  to  know  it. 
He  sent  it  in  by  the  nurse,  and  then  trudged 
around  to  the  Bank  block  and  climbed  the  stairs 
to  his  room.  It  was  not  late.  He  filled  his  pipe 
and  went  out  upon  the  balcony,  stretching  his  legs 
upon  Craig's  empty  chair.  He  was  restless.  The 
spectacle  of  James  Atwood's  moral  struggle,  the 
revelation  of  the  secret  forces  that  had  swayed 
that  life,  apparently  so  self-centred  and  unro- 
mantic,  the  pathetic  belated  discovery  that  Tom 
Beaulieu  was  an  Atwood,  the  mystery  that  still 
shrouded  the  woman  Everett  Atwood  had  made 
his  wife,  had  wrought  powerfully  upon  the  young 
lawyer's  imagination.  He  had  thought  he  was 
not  wholly  ignorant  of  life,  but  two  hours  like 
those  in  Dr.  Atwood's  office  he  had  never  known. 
Now  that  it  was  over,  he  found  himself  unstrung. 
The  familiar  balcony,  the  Mattawanset,  sweeping 
with  its  friendly  ripple  against  the  foundations  of 
the  block,  the  Flats,  stretching  indistinctly  in  the 
obscure,  enveloping  night,  seemed  touched  with 
unreality.  The  Plated  City  itself  shrank  into 
nothingness  as  he  sat  there.  The  only  real  thing 
in  its  bustling  life  seemed  to  be  the  long  fidelity, 


344  THE  PLATED   CITY 

the  unanswered  passion,  the  grief,  the  hunger  for 
righteousness  in  an  old  man's  heart.  All  else 
was  as  transient  as  a  dream.  .  .  . 

By  and  by  he  was  conscious  of  a  fragrance, 
delicate,  almost  imperceptible.  It  stirred  his 
memory  vaguely.  Where  had  he  breathed  that 
faint  perfume,  once  before  ?  Suddenly  he  remem 
bered,  and  cast  his  eyes  downward  to  the  lapel  of 
his  coat.  He  had  quite  forgotten  that  he  was 
wearing  Esther  Beaulieu's  rose.  He  drew  it  out, 
and  gazed  at  it  in  the  darkness,  a  slight  smile 
upon  his  lips.  Again  her  image  confronted  him, 
as  in  that  instant  upon  the  vine-clad  porch,  when 
her  reticence  had  given  way,  and  beauty,  pride, 
mirth,  the  superb  vitality  of  youth,  had  hovered 
temptingly  before  his  eyes.  Ah,  what  a  woman  ! 
His  pulse  was  galloping.  Did  he  love  her  ?  Why 
not  win  her  ?  Why  not  grasp  at  unimagined 
happiness,  like  other  men,  letting  the  Plated  City 
say  what  it  would  say  ? 

Why  not?  There  were  a  dozen  reasons.  He 
held  the  rose  to  his  nostrils  a  moment,  the  half 
ironical  smile  deepening  around  his  mouth,  and 
then  with  a  movement  of  his  wrist,  typical  of  the 
renunciation  that  was  growing  to  be  the  habit  of 
his  life,  he  tossed  the  flower  over  the  edge  of  the 
balcony.  Before  its  petals  touched  the  surface  of 
the  Mattawanset  he  found  himself  wishing  that 
he  had  them  still. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  345 


XVIII 

JAMES  ATWOOD  slept  that  night  like  a  boy. 
At  breakfast  Miss  Beaulieu  instantly  detected  the 
change  in  him.  He  was  open-hearted,  almost 
affectionate.  He  chatted  with  her  about  Craig 
and  Sally,  told  her  about  Jedway's  giving  him  ten 
years'  fresh  lease  of  life,  asked  her  plans  for  the 
day.  Ever  since  the  fire  the  Doctor's  horses  had 
been  brought  around  to  the  door  as  usual,  at  ten 
minutes  before  seven,  though  Roberts  had  been 
sent  back  to  the  stable  with  them  more  than  once. 
To-day  Dr.  Atwood  said  he  had  two  or  three 
errands  to  do  down  town  ;  he  wanted  to  see  a 
certain  contractor  in  particular.  As  he  pulled  on 
his  thin  driving-coat,  he  told  Esther  that  he 
wished  she  would  come  into  the  office,  after  his 
return  ;  there  was  something  he  wanted  to  talk 
over  with  her. 

"  I  guess  I'll  drive  down,  myself,  Roberts,"  he 
said  cheerily,  and  the  man-of -all-work  went  back 
to  the  stable,  stopping  to  watch  the  forefeet  of  the 
nigh  horse,  as  the  blacks  trotted  down  the  yard. 
It  was  a  cool  morning,  with  a  bit  of  wind  that 
quickened  the  blood,  and  the  Doctor  was  forced 
to  watch  his  pair  carefully  as  he  drove  down 


THE  PLATED   CITY 

Summit  Street.  They  had  too  much  life  for 
him  sometimes,  but  this  morning  he  enjoyed 
their  eagerness.  At  High  Street,  in  front  of  the 
Library,  he  pulled  up  a  moment,  and  then  drove 
on,  remembering  that  it  was  much  too  early  to 
gain  admittance.  He  had  wanted  to  see  how 
Sally's  successor  was  performing  her  duties. 
Down  the  long,  gentle  slope  of  High  Street  he 
gave  the  blacks  a  trifle  more  rein,  and  once  or 
twice  he  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  buggy  to 
watch  their  action.  They  were  travelling  grandly 
now ;  the  Doctor  jammed  his  straw  hat  more 
firmly  on  his  head,  as  he  turned  sharply  into  the 
upper  corner  of  the  Green.  He  was  enjoying 
every  moment  of  it ;  there  was  no  office  at  the 
Plate  Works  to  claim  him  any  more  ;  it  was  like 
entering  upon  a  long  holiday. 

At  the  lower  corner  of  the  Green,  some  one 
called  to  him  from  the  steps  of  the  Thayer  house. 
He  pulled  the  horses  to  a  standstill,  though  his 
arms  quivered  with  the  effort.  Mrs.  Thayer's  cook 
ran  out  to  the  buggy.  She  was  beside  herself 
with  excitement. 

"  Have  you  seen  Dr.  Fairfield  ?  "  she  cried. 

"No." 

"Or  Dr.  Osborn?" 

"No.     Whoa!     Why?" 

"  Mrs.  Thayer's  took  worse,  and  the  nurse  is 
run  for  a  doctor,  and  there's  no  one  in  the  house 
but  me.  Won't  you  come,  Dr.  Atwood?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  347 

The  color  went  out  of  his  face.  "  I  don't  prac 
tise  any  more,"  he  murmured,  descending  hastily, 
"  but  of  course  I'll  come  in.  You'll  have  to  stand 
by  the  horses,"  he  ordered.  "  There's  no  post 
here.  Don't  be  afraid  ;  that's  it — they  won't  run." 

He  traversed  the  narrow  walk,  hurried  up  the 
low  steps,  and  entered  the  hall,  drawing  off  his 
driving-gloves  with  a  curious  reawakening  of  the 
professional  habits  of  long  before.  He  knew  her 
room  well,  though  he  had  entered  it  but  once.  In 
a  moment  he  was  at  the  door.  A  window  was 
open,  and  the  tiny  room  was  flooded  with  sunlight. 
The  invalid  lay  with  closed  eyes,  the  white  face 
lifted  upon  pillows,  a  gray  dressing-sack  about 
her  shoulders. 

"  Mrs.  Thayer,"  he  called  softly,  as  he  advanced. 
There  was  no  reply.  "  Rachel,"  he  said,  standing 
by  the  bedside.  The  blue- veined  eyelids  did  not 
lift. 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  raised  her 
hand,  lying  quietly  upon  the  coverlet.  The  touch 
startled  him.  Even  in  the  shock  of  that  moment, 
his  professional  training  asserted  itself.  Kneeling 
swiftly,  he  bent  over  her,  to  bring  his  ear  close  to 
her  bosom.  As  he  did  so,  he  was  aware  of  a  new 
sensation  —  very  sudden,  neither  painful  nor  pleas 
ant,  but  very  strange,  like  the  slipping  of  belting 
from  its  shaft,  as  if  the  belting  revolved  slower 
—  slower  —  scarcely  crept,  while  the  released 
shaft  whirled  faster  —  faster  —  dizzily  fast.  It 


348  THE  PLATED    CITY 

made  him  feel  faint;  lie  had  to  shut  his  eyes;  his 
head  sank  lower  and  lower.  It  touched  the  breast 
of  the  woman  he  loved; — it  rested,  there  where 
in  life  it  had  never  rested. 

Outside,  the  black  horses  stamped,  impatient  to 
be  off,  tossing  their  heads  high  above  the  fright 
ened  servant  clinging  to  the  bit.  Minute  after 
minute  went  by.  The  wind  blew  the  long  mane 
into  the  girl's  face.  She  peered  up  and  down  the 
Green.  Why  would  not  some  one  come?  Five 
minutes  passed  —  ten.  Dr.  F  airfield  turned  into 
the  Green  from  Main  Street,  driving  fast.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  Mrs.  Thayer's,  stared  curi 
ously  at  Dr.  Atwood's  horses,  and  went  into  the 
house.  Then  came  the  nurse,  panting  from  her 
run,  who  went  in  likewise,  leaving  the  scared  girl 
by  the  horses.  Dr.  Osborn,  summoned  by  another 
messenger,  drove  up  too,  but  seeing  Fairfield's 
buggy,  drove  away.  A  belated  workman,  hurry 
ing  toward  the  new  machine  shops,  good-naturedly 
stopped  to  hold  the  horses  for  her. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  ran  in.  Another  work 
man  stopped,  and  then  another.  A  knot  of  them 
gathered  about  the  empty  carriages,  asking  ques 
tions.  People  seemed  to  drift  in  from  Main 
Street  to  that  usually  quietest  corner  of  the  Green. 
The  horses  stopped  stamping,  and  gazed  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  crowd.  Some  one  came  out  of  the 


THE  PLATED   CITY  349 

house,  and  now  the  questions  were  in  whispers, 
and  there  were  exclamations  of  surprise  and  awe. 
A  boy  ran  off  up  the  Hill,  fast  as  his  chubby  legs 
could  carry  him,  and  by  and  by  Roberts  came  run 
ning  down,  and  the  crowd  fell  back  from  Dr. 
At  wood's  carriage.  The  coachman,  coatless  and 
hatless,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  turned  the 
black  horses  toward  the  Hill,  and  they  went 
slowly,  with  their  heads  down,  as  if  they  knew 
that  they  were  masterless. 


350  THE  PLATED    CITY 


XIX 

IN  the  dining-room  of  the  Palace  Hotel  at  San 
Francisco  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig  Kennedy  were  fin 
ishing  breakfast.  It  was  their  second  morning 
since  leaving  the  trans-continental  sleeper,  and 
already  they  were  sure  that  none  of  the  waiters  in 
the  dining-room  suspected  them  of  being  anything 
other  than  an  old  married  pair.  Craig  was  scan 
ning  a  San  Francisco  paper  in  a  superior  fashion, 
and  Sally  was  preparing  to  draw  on  her  gloves. 
All  at  once  her  husband  gave  an  exclamation  that 
made  her  look  up.  His  eyes  were  big. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  cried.  "By  Jupiter! 
Don't  bother  me." 

"  If  the  waiter  could  have  heard  you  say  that," 
retorted  Mrs.  Kennedy,  demurely,  "he  would  be 
certain  we  weren't  just  married." 

It  was  lost  upon  Craig.  He  turned  the  paper 
nervously  and  ran  his  eye  down  a  column  upon 
the  inside  page.  He  was  open-mouthed  with 
excitement  now. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  said  Sally,  in  a  tone  intended 
for  the  waiter's  ear,  "  would  you  mind  tearing  that 
paper  in  two  ?  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  351 

The  bridegroom  paid  not  the  slightest  attention 
to  this  proposition.  Sally  waited  a  moment  more. 
His  eyes  were  nearing  the  bottom  of  the  second 
column. 

"  Craig,"  she  said,  with  tragic  emphasis,  "  we 
have  been  married  but  eleven  days,  and  already  —  " 

He  tossed  the  paper  over  to  her,  and  thrusting 
both  hands  into  his  pockets,  gave  a  low  boyish 
whistle  of  astonishment. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  "  he  demanded. 

" '  Triumph  of  Engineering  ! '  Is  that  it  ?  "  She 
looked  up  from  the  paper  in  some  astonishment. 
Craig  nodded,  and  she  read  on.  " '  G-eo.  W.  Lewis 
the  Lucky  Man  !  Who  Holds  the  Stock  of  the  Lewis 
Land  and  Irrigation  Company  ? ' ' 

She  glanced  over  the  column  and  laid  down  the 
paper  without  turning  the  page.  Had  he  been 
joking  with  her  ? 

"Was  that  really  it,  Craig?"  she  asked.  "I 
thought  it  was  something  nice." 

"Well  I  should  say  it  was  nice,"  replied  the 
architect.  "  Rather  nice  ;  for  those  who  are  on 
the  inside.  Do  you  know  who  George  W.  Lewis 
is?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He's  Norman  Lewis's  father,"  replied  Craig 
Kennedy,  succinctly,  "and  unless  this  paper 
lies  —  " 

"  Norman's  father  !  "  broke  in  Sally.  "  Why, 
isn't  that  interesting  !  "  And  she  picked  up  the 


352  THE  PLATED   CITY 

paper  again,  perusing  it  slowly,  conscientiously, 
as  only  a  woman  can. 

Her  husband  watched  her  face.  "  Why,  Craig," 
she  asked  at  last,  still  puzzled  by  the  unfamiliar 
details  concerning  irrigating  levels  and  recorded 
titles  and  preferred  stock,  "does  this  mean  that 
Norman  Lewis  will  get  back  all  that  money  that 
you  told  me  he  had  been  loaning  to  his  father  ?  " 

"  Get  it  back  !  "  cried  Kennedy.  "  It  means 
that  he  has  his  everlasting  fortune  stuck  away  in 
a  drawer  of  his  desk  up  in  our  old  room.  That 
stock  is  selling  at  two  hundred  at  this  moment. 
Dear  old  Norman  !  Think  of  it  !  And  he  never 
had  any  luck  in  anything  yet." 

"  Why  don't  you  see  his  father  and  make  sure  ?  " 
suggested  the  practical  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "  It  would 
be  so  nice  if  we  could  be  the  ones  to  send  Norman 
word." 

"  See  his  father  ?  "  asked  Craig. 

"  Yes ;  he's  staying  here  at  this  hotel,"  said  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  pointing  to  the  bottom  of  the  second 
column.  Kennedy  had  overlooked  it. 

"  Good  enough  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  So  he  is. 
I'll  look  him  up  this  very  minute.  Stay  in  the 
ladies'  parlor  till  I  come,  will  you  ?  The  Golden 
Gate  can  wait !  " 

They  hurried  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  Ken 
nedy  escorted  his  wife  to  a  corner  of  the  parlor, 
which  was  at  that  moment  deserted. 

"  Craig,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm 


THE  PLATED   CITY  353 

as  he  turned  to  leave  her.  "  We  are  tremendously 
glad  for  Norman,  but  we  don't  envy  him,  do  we  ? 
He  hasn't  the  best  of  it,  after  all.  We  think  so, 
don't  we  !  Look  at  me  !  " 

He  obeyed,  with  results  known  only  to  a  godless 
bell-boy,  past  master  in  the  art  of  classifying 
married  couples,  who  was  hurrying  noiselessly 
past  the  parlor  door. 

At  the  office  desk  the  clerk  of  whom  Kennedy 
inquired  for  George  W.  Lewis  waved  him  wearily 
toward  the  writing -room.  "You're  the  fourth 
man  after  George  W.  Lewis  in  the  last  ten  min 
utes.  He's  in  there." 

A  sallow,  nervous-looking  little  man,  prema 
turely  gray,  with  a  high  square  forehead  and 
restless  eyes,  was  scratching  off  a  letter  at  the 
writing-table.  Opposite  him  sat  three  reporters, 
with  pads  out,  but  awed  into  temporary  silence  by 
an  outburst  of  the  inventor's  wrath.  Kennedy 
strode  up  to  him,  and  waited  till  he  had  finished 
his  sentence.  Old  Lewis  looked  up  with  a  snarl. 

"  Mr.  Lewis,"  said  Craig,  putting  out  his  hand, 
"I  am  from  Bartonvale,  Connecticut.  My  name 
is  Kennedy."  The  inventor's  shrewd  little  eyes 
searched  the  young  fellow's  face.  Here  was  no 
reporter,  at  all  events. 

"  Your  son  is  my  best  friend,"  Craig  went  on. 
"  We  roomed  together,  till  two  weeks  ago.  I've 
heard  him  talk  about  you,  sir,  of  course.  I  don't 
know  whether  he's  ever  written  of  me." 

2A 


354  THE  PLATED  CITY 

George  W.  Lewis  nodded,  and  shook  hands. 
"  Been  getting  married  lately,  haven't  you  ?  Nor 
man  wrote  me  the  first  of  the  month." 

"  On  my  wedding  trip  now,"  proclaimed  Craig, 
jubilantly,  whereupon  one  of  the  reporters  thought 
fully  entered  a  "  personal "  upon  his  pad. 

"  I'm  just  writing  to  Norman,"  volunteered  Mr. 
Lewis.  "  Have  you  seen  the  morning  papers  ?  " 
he  added  quietly,  with  a  moment's  glance  of 
triumph  in  his  eye. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kennedy.  "  Does  Norman  know 
anything  about  it  ?  It's  so,  is  it  ?  "  The  three 
reporters  craned  forward,  eagerly.  The  inventor 
scanned  them  contemptuously,  before  replying. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  Kennedy,  "  it's  so.  I  wasn't 
going  to  tell  Norman  till  the  thing  was  a  dead 
certainty.  I  guess  that  boy  has  thought  some 
times  that  his  Lewis  Land  stock  wasn't  worth 
much.  Sit  down.  I've  just  explained  to  him  how 
it  was.  You  fellows  can  take  this,  if  you  want 
to,  and  then  go."  He  turned  his  shrill,  feeble 
voice  toward  the  reporters.  "According  to  the 
U.  S.  Survey,  the  Buenos  Dios  River,  at  Blue 
Jacket  Gap,  is  eleven  inches  lower  at  low  water 
than  the  land  sections  held  by  the  George  W.  Lewis 
Company.  Well,  it  ain't.  It's  a  good  thirteen 
inches  higher.  That's  all  there  is  to  it ;  mistake 
of  some  government  fool  just  out  of  college. 
We've  got  a  stock  company,  and  the  rights,  and 
the  irrigating  canal,  and  any  God's  quantity  of 


THE  PLATED   CITY  355 

land.  We  don't  ask  any  odds  of  the  newspapers, 
and  ain't  looking  for  an  English  syndicate  to  sell 
out  to.  I  guess  that  covers  the  ground,  boys, 
eh?"  His  tone  relaxed  a  little,  and  he  nodded 
a  good-morning  to  the  reporters,  not  unsocially. 
—  "  You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  now.  I  want  to 
talk  with  this  gentleman  from  the  East." 

"  May  I  telegraph  Norman  ?  "  asked  Kennedy, 
as  they  were  left  alone. 

"If  you  want  to,"  said  George  W.  Lewis. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  I'd  like  to  do  so 
much,"  replied  Kennedy.  "  He  deserves  his  luck, 
if  anybody  ever  did." 

"  I  suppose  he  hasn't  had  much  ready  money  ?  " 
inquired  the  father,  uneasily. 

"Not  always." 

"  He  can  have  it  from  now  on.  I  want  that 
boy  to  go  to  Europe,  and  have  a  good  time  and 
throw  money  right  and  left.  Why,  when  he  was 
a  little  bit  of  a  fellow,  he  used  to  cut  out  pictures 
of  foreign  parts  and  stick  them  up  around  his 
bedroom.  He  was  wild  to  go  off  and  see  some 
thing,  even  then,  but  he's  stayed  right  there  in 
Bartonvale,  and  done  the  square  thing ;  yes,  the 
square  thing  ten  times  over,"  he  added  with  a 
queer  sort  of  sob,  "  by  his  father.  Well,  he 
carries  half,  and  I  guess  a  little  more'n  half  of 
this  stock.  He  can  sell  out  to-morrow,  if  he 
wants  to,  for  a  quarter  of  a  million  :  but  there'll 
be  more  money  made  by  staying  in.  He's  a  good 


356  THE  PLATED   CITY 

boy.     Fact  is,  I  was  just  telling  him  so,  when  you 
came  in."     He  pointed  to  the  unfinished  letter. 

"Look  here,"  said  Kennedy  "won't  you  lunch 
with  us  to-day?  Mrs.  Kennedy  will  want  to  meet 
you,  I  know.  She  is  a  great  admirer  of  Norman. 
Will  you?" 

The  inventor  cast  a  look  downward  at  his 
threadbare  business  suit.  "  Well,  I  dunno  but  I 
will,"  he  said,  with  an  embarrassed  pleasure.  "  I 
haven't  eaten  a  meal  of  victuals  with  a  lady  since 
I  struck  the  coast,  and  that's  fourteen  years  in 
August.  Yes,  I  guess  I  will.  I  don't  look  very 
nice,  though.  This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  put  up 
at  this  house.  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  high-toned. 
You're  sure  your  wife  would  want  me  to  come  ?  " 

"  Certain  of  it,"  laughed  Kennedy.  "  I'll  meet 
you  here  at  one.  Good  by  till  then.  I  want  to 
send  that  telegram  to  Norman." 

But  at  one  o'clock  the  inventor,  arrayed  in  a 
suit  of  clothes  from  which  the  price-tags  had  just 
been  ripped,  paced  the  office  of  the  Palace  Hotel 
in  vain.  Venturing  at  last  to  ask  for  Mr.  Kennedy 
at  the  desk,  he  was  informed  that  his  man  had 
started  East  again,  at  short  notice.  A  death  in  his 
wife's  family  or  something  of  the  sort,  the  clerk 
believed ;  at  any  rate,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  had 
had  just  time  to  catch  the  Southern  Pacific  train. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  357 


XX 


MEANWHILE  Norman  Lewis,  waking  late  from 
the  night  that  followed  his  solitary  vigil  upon  the 
balcony,  hurried  breakfastless  to  the  station,  and 
had  hardly  time  to  swallow  a  cup  of  coffee  before 
boarding  the  train  for  Simsbury.  He  had  passed 
two  or  three  groups  of  his  friends  on  Main  Street, 
but  in  response  to  their  beckonings  had  pointed 
train  wards  and  hastened  on.  As  he  climbed  the 
car  steps  a  couple  of  Bartonvale  men  in  front  of 
him  were  discussing  Dr.  At  wood,  but  for  that  day 
Lewis  wished  to  drop  Dr.  Atwood  entirely  from 
his  mind,  and  he  purposely  went  to  the  other  end 
of  the  car.  He  wanted  a  holiday,  more  than  he 
ever  remembered  wanting  one  before.  Since  the 
fire,  his  professional  work  had  been  quadrupled, 
and  he  had  devoted  himself  to  it  with  a  nervous 
energy  that  was  telling  on  him.  He  longed  to 
escape  from  the  Plated  City,  were  it  but  for  a  day. 
The  necessity  of  tracing  the  title  in  Simsbury 
gave  him  an  excuse  for  slipping  away  from  the 
Bank  block,  and  breathing  for  six  or  eight  hours 
the  unspoiled  air  of  mid- June.  As  the  train  rat 
tled  up  the  Valley,  past  the  last  outlying  shanties 
of  Bartonvale  and  the  big  dam,  Lewis  stared  out 


358  THE  PLATED   CITY 

of  the  car  window  with  all  the  enjoyment  of  a  lad. 
The  Mattawanset  was  low,  and  the  lank,  bare 
legged  Connecticut  boys,  snaring  suckers  from 
the  rocks  mid-stream,  moved  the  lawyer's  envy. 
Now  and  then  the  rocky,  heavily  wooded  banks 
gave  way  to  stretches  of  meadowland,  whitened 
with  daisies,  and  hovered  over  by  bobolinks  that 
were  bubbling  yet  with  the  May  rapture.  But 
the  river  was  never  far  away,  whether  it  slept 
lazily  in  its  worn  bed  of  slate  and  schist,  or  flung 
itself  wantonly  down  the  long  rapids  for  the  very 
pleasure  of  the  plunge.  With  every  moment  that 
Lewis  fed  his  eyes  upon  its  clear  yellowish  water, 
he  felt  increasingly  refreshed,  clearer  of  brain, 
more  buoyant  of  heart,  secure  of  himself.  The 
Plated  City  and  all  that  pertained  to  it  retreated, 
grew  less  with  every  curve  that  the  Valley  train 
rounded  and  left  behind.  After  an  hour's  ride,  he 
felt  that  he  had  been  away  for  months.  Every 
impression  older  than  that  hour  seemed  to  have 
been  smoothed  out  of  his  mind,  by  the  all-compel 
ling  power  of  the  glorious  June  mid-morning. 

At  the  little  country  station  where  lie  had  to 
change  trains,  however,  he  was  conscious  that 
certain  prior  experiences  were  beginning  to  re 
assert  themselves.  He  had  half  an  hour  to  wait, 
and  as  he  paced  the  long  platform,  he  discovered 
that  the  Plated  City  was  lurking,  as  it  were,  at 
either  end.  In  vain  he  tried  to  shake  off  the 
memory  of  the  place.  It  was  too  obstinately  in- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  359 

trenched.  To  no  purpose  did  he  saunter  up  and 
down,  gazing  off  upon  half-grown  cornfields,  and 
rolling  meadows  of  timothy  drifted  with  daisies. 
What  he  really  saw  was  Bartonvale,  twenty-five 
miles  down  the  river.  On  the  train  it  had  been 
different.  He  wished  that  the  Simsbury  train 
would  come  along  ;  what  was  the  use  of  a  holi 
day  if  the  town  you  were  trying  to  get  away 
from  persisted  in  dogging  you  ? 

He  halted  a  moment  at  the  station  door,  and 
learned  that  his  train  was  twenty  minutes  late. 
Fate  seemed  against  him,  and  he  thereupon  turned 
valiantly  to  the  combat,  and  asked  why  he  should 
not  think  of  the  Plated  City  as  much  as  he  pleased  ? 
It  was  not  as  if  he  were  a  criminal,  pursued  by  the 
memory  of  scenes  he  would  fain  efface  ;  he  was 
simply  a  somewhat  overworked  lawyer  on  a  holi 
day.  It  was  undoubtedly  unlucky  that  he  could 
not  leave  his  clients  behind  him,  but  if  he  never 
theless  chose  to  occupy  himself,  this  idle  fore 
noon,  with  thoughts  that  he  had  hoped  would 
remain  in  Bartonvale,  whose  concern  was  it  but 
his  own  ?  He  glanced  argumentatively  up  and 
down  the  empty  platform  :  the  baggage  master 
was  lounging,  half  asleep,  upon  his  truck ;  the 
frizzle-haired  telegraph  operator  was  filing  her 
nails  ;  the  station  agent  was  hoeing  beans  in  his 
garden  across  the  track.  The  lawyer's  position 
was  incontrovertible  ;  his  thoughts  were  purely 
a  matter  of  his  own  concern. 


360  THE  PLATED   CITY 

After  all,  what  were  they,  that  he  should  not 
give  himself  up  to  them  ?  They  were  scarcely  of 
the  Plated  City  in  general.  He  had  wasted  very 
little  time  of  late  in  abstract  speculation  about 
the  town  whose  shining  title  and  sharp  contrast 
of  Hill  and  Flats  had  always  tempted  his  vagrant 
fancy.  He  had  admired  the  Plated  City,  even 
while  mocking  at  it  ;  since  the  fire  he  had  ad 
mired  it  more  than  ever,  but  wondered  whether 
he  cared  for  it  as  sincerely  as  before.  At  any 
rate,  the  Plated  City  troubled  itself  very  little 
about  him,  and  it  was  hardly  fair  that  he  should 
have  to  carry  the  town  on  his  shoulders  when 
ever  he  had  a  holiday.  -No,  his  thoughts  were 
not  of  the  Plated  City  in  itself,  nor  even  of  that 
particular  spot  of  it  where  so  much  of  his  life  had 
been  passed  ;  the  narrow  office  in  the  Bank  block, 
and  the  big  room  overhead,  where  Craig  Kennedy 
and  he  had  long  been  quartered,  and  the  collec 
tion  of  photographs  had  increased  slowly  from 
year  to  year.  The  portion  of  the  Plated  City 
that  confronted  him  persistently,  as  he  sauntered 
back  and  forth  along  the  hot  platform,  was  the 
very  crest  of  the  Hill,  the  pine -shadowed  house 
of  Dr.  Atwood.  There  was  no  escaping  it.  The 
plain  old  house  with  its  narrow  piazza  overlooking 
the  turmoil  of  the  Flats,  the  dusky  office  where 
the  secrets  of  James  Atwood's  life  had  been  sud 
denly  laid  bare,  the  bedroom  where  he  had  watched 
Tom  Beaulieu's  life  flicker  out  in  the  dim  dawn, 


THE  PLATED  CITY  361 

the  vine-covered  porch,  where  for  an  instant  he 
had  been  tempted  to  unimaginable  folly  - 

At  this  point  the  lawyer  turned  sharply  upon 
his  heel  and  strode  away  toward  the  other  end  of 
the  platform.  A  reminiscent  smile  bent  his  thin 
lip.  Yes,  if  James  Atwood's  figure  had  not  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway,  at  the  nick  of  time,  he 
would  have  said  something  or  done  something  — 
probably  both — which  he  would  have  looked  back 
upon  in  a  cooler  moment  —  like  the  present  mo 
ment,  for  instance  —  as  sheer  fatuity.  It  had 
taken  him  off  his  guard.  He  had  not  supposed 
that  a  tug  of  passion  like  that  could  almost  have 
swept  him  from  his  feet.  Perhaps  it  was  his  own 
fault  for  venturing  so  nearly  beyond  his  depth. 
Ought  he  not  to  have  kept  to  shallower  water? 
He  had  been  turning  over  some  photographs  that 
evening  before  starting  for  the  Hill  ;  why  had  he 
ever  allowed  the  face  and  form  of  Esther  Beaulieu 
to  hover  between  him  and  his  ancient  cronies  ? 
For  a  week  such  had  been  the  case  ;  ever  since 
the  night  they  had  watched  together.  He  should 
have  been  more  resolute  in  the  beginning.  He 
ought  not  to  have  let  himself  gaze  at  her  so  long 
by  the  light  of  the  night-lamp.  Yes,  he  might  as 
well  confess  it  to  himself  ;  she  had  gone  to  his 
head  a  trifle  ;  he  had  been  fool  enough  to  grow 
jealous  of  James  Atwood  ;  and  when  she  had 
called  to  him  from  the  porch  so  unexpectedly,  and 
had  laughed  into  his  eyes  with  such  infectious 


362  THE  PLATED   CITY 

youthfulness,  he  had  been  taken  unaware,  — he 
was  scarcely  master  of  himself,  —  he  would  have 
been  kissing  her  in  a  moment  more. 

And  then?  Norman  Lewis  stopped  upon  the 
farther  end  of  the  platform,  and  gazed  off  blankly 
over  the  June  meadows.  And  then  ?  His  pulses 
were  leaping  at  the  thought,  but  he  fancied  his 
brain  was  still  cool  enough  to  rein  them,  and  he 
let  them  leap.  Suppose  he  had  kissed  her  ? 
What  would  Dr.  Atwood  have  said,  at  the  dis 
covery  of  such  an  avowal?  And  what  would 
Craig  Kennedy  say,  and  the  men  at  the  Mattawan- 
set  Club,  and  all  the  Plated  City  from  Summit 
Street  to  the  outermost  Flats  ?  Norman  Lewis 
in  love  with  Pete  Beaulieu's  daughter,  Tom  Beau- 
lieu's  sister,  a  girl  upon  whom  the  Plated  City, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  had  drawn  the  color  line  ? 
The  lawyer's  face  flushed ;  he  was  sensitive  as 
a  woman.  But  he  bent  his  brows  and  stared 
obstinately  over  the  meadows,  as  before.  It  was 
not  a  question,  after  all,  of  what  people  would 
say.  Whether  he  choose  to  fall  in  love  with 
Esther  Beaulieu  was  his  own  affair,  and  hers. 
Irretrievable  error,  irremediable  disgrace,  it  might 
be  in  the  Plated  City's  eyes,  and  nevertheless  to 
him,  who  had  mocked  so  often  at  the  Plated  City's 
point  of  view,  it  might  be  one  of  those  follies  that 
enfold  the  inner  heart  of  wisdom.  If  he  loved 
her,  if  he  were  sure  he  loved  her,  were  not  the 
world  well  lost  ?  Beautiful,  intelligent,  virtuous  — 


THE  PLATED   CITY  363 

Yes,  undoubtedly  she  is  all  that,  said  the  steady 
brain  whose  task  it  was  to  rein  the  pulses,  but  her 
mother  may  have  been  an  octoroon.  This  is  the 
naked  fact  —  why  shroud  it?  The  pulses  strug 
gled,  but  they  slowed.  Lewis  swung  around,  and 
recommenced  his  pacing  of  the  platform.  He 
tried  to  place  himself  where  he  had  been  the  even 
ing  before,  ignorant  as  yet  of  Dr.  Atwood's  story. 
The  woman  who  had  watched  with  him  from  mid 
night  to  dawn,  whose  image  had  hovered  before 
him  in  his  solitary  evening  hours,  the  rose  from 
whose  breast  he  had  caught  as  it  fell,  had  been 
to  him  the  ball-player's  sister,  ostracized  for  her 
mother's  sake,  an  alien  in  the  little  Bartonvale 
world.  He  had  thought  of  her  mother  merely  as 
a  strange  figure  upon  Nigger  Hill,  over  whose 
memory  the  fewer  words  there  were  wasted,  the 
better.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  that,  the  girl  had 
moved  him  to  something  more  than  admiration 
or  sympathy.  Possibly  he  had  lost  his  heart  over 
her  ;  certainly  he  had  nearly  lost  his  head.  Did 
it  either  mend  or  mar  matters  very  greatly  that 
he  now  knew  that  her  mother  was  Everett  At 
wood's  wife,  and  that  the  dead  ball-player  had 
been  the  heir  to  the  summit  of  the  Hill  ?  It  dis 
sipated  one  uncertainty  only  to  involve  him  in 
another  ;  it  pushed  back  by  one  generation  the 
infatuation  felt  by  a  Bartonvale  man  for  a  woman 
of  doubtful  birth,  bringing  the  reckless,  renegade 
Northerner  of  war  times  into  strange  compan- 


364  THE  PLATED   CITY 

ionship  with  the  gentle-natured,  self-restrained 
lawyer  of  to-day ;  but  the  race  question  was  un 
touched.  Dr.  Atwood  had  said  that  the  woman 
had  called  herself  a  French  Creole,  that  there  were 
names  and  dates  given  for  verification,  in  that 
bundle  of  letters  that  were  now  gray  ashes.  But 
there  were  apparently  darker  hints  as  well,  things 
that  the  kind-hearted  Doctor  shrank  from  showing 
to  Esther's  eye.  Dr.  Atwood  knew  by  heart,  he 
had  said,  all  that  concerned  Esther  to  know.  He 
had  promised  to  tell  her  to-day.  Perhaps  he  was 
even  now  telling  her.  The  lawyer  instinctively 
pulled  out  his  watch ;  it  was  mid-forenoon.  Yes, 
very  probably  the  girl  already  knew  what  there 
was  for  her  to  know — and  yet  Lewis  could  not 
help  desiring  that  so  much  had  not  been  left  to 
an  old  man's  memory.  He  wished  that  after  so 
many  years  of  patient  guarding  of  his  brother's 
secrets,  the  Doctor  had  not  impatiently  tossed 
them  to  the  flames  at  last,  without  stopping  to 
weigh  their  importance  to  the  girl  he  had  so  gen 
erously  befriended.  Nevertheless,  Atwood  had 
always  been  singularly  accurate  in  names  and 
dates.  It  would  be  quite  possible  to  get  from 
him  the  data  necessary  for  a  search  in  Louisiana  ; 
he  could  make  a  confidant  of  the  Doctor  if  nec 
essary  ;  he  would  go  South  that  very  month,  and 
clear  Esther's  name  from  that  supposititious  stain 
of  darker  blood  than  ran  in  Creole  veins  —  if  it 
were  possible. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  365 

And  if  it  were  not  possible  ?  How  then  ?  Sup 
pose  he  were  to  discover  what  he  would  dread  to 
find?  "Better  know  too  little  than  too  much," 
had  been  the  words  of  Dr.  Atwood.  Might  not 
uncertainty,  after  all,  be  preferable,  if  he  really 
loved  the  girl  ?  Could  he  steal  Southward  with 
out  her  knowledge,  in  pettifogging,  search  for 
names  and  registers  of  births  and  deaths,  if  he 
felt  toward  Esther  Beaulieu  the  genuine  passion 
of  a  whole-hearted  man  ?  If  he  loved  her,  was  it 
not  better  to  win  her  as  she  was,  and  take  the 
chance  ?  It  flashed  upon  him  that  that  very  day 
might  be  the  last  when  he  could  stand  thus,  and 
choose  freely.  When  he  should  return  to  Bar- 
tonvale  that  night,  the  girl  would  know  at  least 
in  part  the  contents  of  the  letters.  She  would  be 
in  possession  of  facts  that  would  enable  her  to 
trace  the  truth.  Would  it  not  then  be  too  late 
for  him  to  cry  "I  love  you  —  I  ask  no  questions 
—  I  take  the  chance"?  To-night  she  would  feel, 
she  could  not  help  feeling,  that  at  heart  he 
wished  her  to  make  sure  there  was  no  color  line 
between  them  ;  she  would  be  self-conscious ;  she 
would  stand  on  miserable  trial,  until  the  truth 
were  ascertained.  At  that  present  hour  only 
could  they  face  each  other  as  they  ought,  man  to 
woman,  ignoring  the  past,  venturing  the  future  ! 
And  the  hour  was  fleeting  ;  Bartonvale  lay  far 
down  the  valley,  and  the  man  and  woman  were 
apart. 


366  THE  PLATED   CITY 

A  train  whistled.  The  station  agent  dropped 
his  hoe,  climbed  the  fence  leisurely,  and  crossed 
the  track  to  the  platform. 

"  Is  that  a  down  train  ?  "  asked  Norman  Lewis. 
"I  want  to  get  back  to  Barton  vale." 

"  Thought  you  was  goin'  to  Simsbury,"  was  the 
surprised  reply. 

"I  was." 

"Well,  that's  the  Simsbury  train  comin'  now. 
There  ain't  any  down  train  till  the  express,  this 
afternoon.  You  can  get  to  Simsbury  and  back 
again  before  she  starts, — if  you  want  to.  Want 
me  to  flag  48?" 

The  lawyer  hesitated,  and  then  nodded.  In  a 
couple  of  minutes  he  was  flying  through  white 
and  golden  meadows  once  more,  but  he  did  not 
see  them.  At  Simsbury  he  managed,  after  some 
difficulty,  to  secure  the  information  he  was  in 
search  of,  but  when  the  last  item  of  business  had 
been  finished,  it  was  two  o'clock,  just  too  late  for 
the  train  connecting  with  the  Bartonvale  express. 
He  got  dinner  at  a  farm-house.  There  were  three 
hours  on  his  hands. 

"Did  you  ever  see  old  Newgate?"  inquired  his 
farmer  host.  Lewis  shook  his  head. 

"Lemme  drive  you  round  there.  It's  wuth 
seein'.  There's  parties  there  lookin'  at  it  most 
every  day.  What  d'ye  say  ?  I  can  drive  you 
from  there  to  Granby  depot  just  as  well  as  not." 

The  lawyer  assented,  indifferent  how  the  hours 


THE  PLATED   CITY  367 

passed.  After  half  an  hour's  uphill  drive  they 
stopped  in  front  of  a  huge  square  inclosure  of 
brick  and  reddish  stone,  with  sentry  boxes  at  the 
corners.  Over  the  gateway  arch  was  a  marble 
keystone,  with  the  words  "Newgate  Prison, 
1802."  Lewis's  companion  knocked  at  the  back 
door  of  a  farm-house  opposite,  and  secured  a 
smooth-tongued  young  countryman  as  the  lawyer's 
guide,  himself  strolling  off:  to  talk  crops  with  an 
old  acquaintance,  and  rather  glad  to  escape  from 
Lewis,  whom  he  had  found  unexpectedly  preoc 
cupied  and  unsocial.  There  had  been  no  sight 
seers  that  afternoon,  and  the  guide  escorted  his 
single  visitor  through  the  gate  and  into  the  wide 
jail  yard. 

"Want  to  go  down  into  the  mine  first?"  he 
asked,  "or  would  you  rather  begin  by  seeing 
what's  above  ground?  " 

"As  you  like,"  said  Lewis.  "Whichever  is 
easier  for  you."  He  was  wondering  whether 
Esther  Beaulieu,  by  any  glance  or  word,  had  ever 
betrayed  that  she  cared  for  him. 

They  crossed  the  grassy  court,  for  generations 
untrodden  by  the  feet  of  prisoners,  and  the  guide 
struck  glibly  into  his  parrot-like  description  of 
the  buildings  before  them.  Some  were  roofless 
from  long  neglect,  others  newly  shingled  through 
the  thrift  of  the  keeper,  who  could  not  risk  see 
ing  his  show-place  in  absolute  ruin.  Lewis  fol 
lowed  his  loquacious,  nasal-voiced  companion  from 


368  THE  PLATED   CITY 

workshop  to  kitchen,  grim  tread-mill  to  frightful 
sleeping-chamber,  listening  idly  to  quotations  from 
the  account  of  the  prison  written  by  an  English 
visitor  eighty  years  before.  Crude  enough,  brutal 
enough,  had  it  all  been,  no  doubt,  but  the  lawyer's 
mind  was  elsewhere.  Were  any  of  those  things 
essentially  so  cruel,  he  was  questioning,  as  the 
color  line  we  draw  without  a  thought  ?  The 
guide  felt  piqued  at  the  omission  of  the  usual 
exclamations  of  pity  and  surprise.  By  and  by 
they  emerged  into  the  sunshiny  yard. 

"  Do  you  see  that  flat  rock  ?  "  said  the  country 
man,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  plays  a  trump 
card.  "  Well,  right  there  happened  something  that 
I  guess  would  have  waked  you  up  some  to  see." 
And  he  told  how  the  rebellious  convicts,  long 
ago,  had  at  a  given  signal  broken  out  of  the 
blacksmith  shop,  headed  by  a  great  negro  armed 
with  a  red-hot  bar,  and  how,  when  he  had  smitten 
down  one  guard,  and  was  dashing  for  the  gate, 
all  the  tumultuous  prisoners  behind  him,  a  bullet 
from  the  sentry-box  struck  him,  and  he  pitched 
forward  on  the  flat  rock  to  die.  The  fellow  told 
his  story  well.  Lewis  fancied  he  could  see  the 
red-hot  iron  falling  from  the  negro's  loosening 
grasp,  and  growing  darker  and  darker  as  it  cooled, 
while  the  dark  streamlet  trickled  under  it  into 
the  close-trodden  grass.  When  it  comes  to  cour 
age,  or  desire  for  life,  or  the  swift  stroke  of  death, 
thought  Norman  Lewis,  it  is  the  same  blood  that 


THE  PLATED   CITY  369 

courses  through  us  all — hot,  hot,  and  cooled  so 
quickly  ! 

"  Yes,  there  he  lay  !  "  said  the  nasal  voice,  re 
iterating  with  satisfaction  the  final  phrase  of  the 
narrative. 

"Just  like  any  one  else,  I  suppose,"  added  the 
lawyer,  with  a  grave  irony  that  was  lost  upon 
the  guide.  "  Are  we  through  ?  " 

"  Through  !  "  cried  the  young  fellow,  "  why,  you 
ain't  seen  nothing  yet !  We'll  go  down  into  the 
old  copper  mine  now.  I  guess  I  can  make  you 
open  your  eyes.  There  ain't  anything  like  this 
anywhere,  not  even  in  the  old  country,  so  they 
tell  me." 

They  entered  a  sort  of  shed,  protecting  the 
entrance  to  a  pit.  A  half-dozen  old  overcoats 
hung  there,  and  Lewis  was  directed  to  put  one 
on.  The  guide  lighted  a  couple  of  candles,  and 
began  to  back  down  a  perpendicular  ladder  into 
the  icy  dark. 

"  This  mine,"  he  said,  pausing  with  his  head 
and  shoulders  still  above  ground,  "is  well  on  to 
two  hundred  years  old.  They  used  to  get  a  sight 
of  copper  out  of  it,  and  when  the  Revolution 
broke  out,  they  put  the  Tories  down  here.  Old 
George  Washington  sent  'em  here.  Gosh,  they 
couldn't  fool  him,  eh  ?  Made  'em  work  right 
alongside  of  niggers  !  After  that,  it  was  a  States 
Prison,"  —  and  on  he  went,  crawling  down  the 
ladder  as  lie  talked. 


370  THE  PLATED  CITY 

Lewis  pulled  on  an  old  cap  and  followed.  A 
curious  sensation  came  over  him  as  he  descended. 
It  was  as  if  the  upper  world  of  June  sunshine,  of 
whitening  meadows  and  rushing  trains  and  pert 
Plated  Cities  had  vanished  irrevocably,  not  only 
from  sight  but  even  from  his  imagination.  It  was 
blotted  out.  Down  the  dripping,  flickering  shaft, 
by  the  wet-runged  ladder  upon  which  his  feet 
stumbled,  he  seemed  to  be  sinking  into  a  new 
shadowy  world,  whose  forces  were  unknown.  And 
it  was  as  if  he  were  bearing  from  one  world  to 
another  neither  any  memory  nor  any  hope,  but 
simply  a  fierce  hunger  of  soul.  He  was  conscious 
that  his  hands  were  slipping  upon  the  rungs,  that 
at  any  moment  he  might  fall.  The  guide's  voice, 
rumbling  companionably  below  him,  grew  fainter 
and  fainter. 


"  Guess  you're  dizzy,"  laughed  the  guide,  seizing 
his  arm.  "  Most  of 'em  are."  Lewis  found  him 
self  standing  on  the  slimy  floor  of  the  first  level. 
Low  passages,  following  the  slanting  seams  of  the 
rock,  led  away  into  the  blackness.  The  guide 
started  down  one  of  them,  turning  every  moment 
or  two  to  caution  Lewis  against  a  loose  rock,  or 
treacherous  pool  of  water.  They  threaded  passage 
after  passage,  now  stooping  to  half-height,  then 
entering  vaulted  chambers  where  they  could  stand 
erect,  and  catch  the  glint  of  copper  in  the  painfully 


THE  PLATED   CITY  371 

hewn  walls.  Lower  and  lower  they  descended, 
here  stopping  to  examine  the  ancient  sleeping- 
bunks,  cut  into  the  solid  stone,  and  there  to  finger 
some  rusty  staple  where  a  criminal  had  been  chained 
as  he  labored.  Everywhere  were  tokens  of  suffer 
ing  stolidly  endured,  of  year-long,  life-long  toil, 
of  sheer  brutality  enthroned  here  in  the  dark. 
Lewis  listened  silently,  almost  apathetically,  to  the 
guide's  stories  of  savage  punishments,  of  strange 
mirth  too,  that  once  rioted  here,  of  daring  efforts 
to  escape,  followed  by  swift  retribution.  Up  that 
unused  shaft,  with  the  daylight  now  gleaming  at 
the  top  of  it,  a  prisoner  had  once  climbed  half-way 
to  freedom,  when  the  worn  rope  parted,  and  he  fell. 
Down  that  drain  men  had  crawled  like  reptiles, 
seeking  to  get  free  ;  along  that  corridor  had  crept  a 
prisoner,  bolder  than  the  rest,  and  felled  his  keeper, 
and  headed  an  impotent,  fearfully  avenged  revolt. 

"  He  was  a  nigger,  too.  I  guess  they  punished 
him  about  as  they  liked,  and  no  questions  asked. 
Niggers  didn't  count,"  said  the  guide. 

The  glib  words  stung  Lewis  like  a  blow.  Even 
in  this  Tartarean  world,  it  seemed,  lurked  the  old 
race  antagonism.  Was  he  about  to  face  it  him 
self,  to  defy  public  opinion,  to  court  outlawry? 
Was  he  strong  enough,  desperate  enough,  to 
marry  Esther  Beaulieu  and  take  the  consequences  ? 
Was  it  not  like  one  of  those  mad  dashes  for 
liberty,  for  happiness,  of  which  he  had  just  heard, 
—  a  moment's  rapture,  ending  in  pitiable  defeat? 


372  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Down  one  more  slanting  passageway  he  stum 
bled,  following  close  behind  his  guide.  His 
breath  came  quick  ;  the  morbid  fascination  of  the 
place  was  upon  him,  stirring  his  imagination,  now, 
into  unnatural  activity.  The  thought  of  Esther 
seemed  to  bring  her  bodily  presence  at  his  side. 
It  was  she  for  whom  he  had  felt  that  fierce,  vague 
passion,  his  sole  companion  as  he  descended  into 
this  fantastic  cavern ;  he  was  aware  of  it  at  last, 
as  with  a  sense  that  his  love  for  her  was  the  one 
reality  which  he  might  bring  down  from  the  sun 
lit  world.  Her  girlish,  stately  hgure  seemed  to 
pace  the  shadowy  passage,  keeping  step  with  him  ; 
he  could  almost  feel  her  breath  upon  his  face ; 
once  he  actually  threw  out  his  hand,  only  to 
bruise  his  ringers  on  the  dripping  wall. 

At  length  the  guide  emerged  into  the  last  and 
worst  of  his  show-places :  an  oval  hollow  of  the 
rock,  with  no  egress.  It  had  been  the  solitary 
confinement  chamber.  The  concave  roof  magni 
fied  every  whisper  into  a  dull  resonant  murmur, 
like  a  huge  sea-shell.  Not  a  moan  had  been 
uttered  there  which  the  listening  roof  had  not  re 
echoed,  in  reverberating  scorn.  At  one  side  there 
was  a  rude  shelf  cut  in  the  rock  for  a  seat  or 
sleeping-place,  and  beneath  it  the  hole  where  had 
once  been  the  staple  to  which  the  solitary  prisoner 
was  chained.  At  the  end  of  the  shelf  there  was  a 
tiny  hollow,  full  of  clear  water  that  trickled  from 
a  crevice  in  the  rocky  wall  above. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  373 

"  There,"  said  the  guide,  "  they  all  drank  of 
that  water,  Tories  and  murderers  and  niggers  and 
all.  That's  been  running  for  more'n  a  hundred 
years."  And  he  narrated  with  sickening  detail 
the  story  of  still  another  negro  prisoner,  chained 
to  the  wall,  whose  effort  to  free  himself  from  his 
shackles  had  resulted  in  a  dreadful  doom. 

Norman  Lewis  stood  staring  at  the  bright  hand 
ful  of  water.  "  Did  you  say  he  drank  of  that  ?  " 
he  asked.  A  strange  exaltation  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  him  ;  his  eyes  shone  ;  his  head  was  erect, 
venturesome  in  its  poise.  Had  the  woman  he 
loved  been  there,  he  could  not  have  carried  him 
self  more  proudly. 

"  Certainly  he  drank  it,"  said  the  guide.  "  All 
of  'em  did." 

"Then  I  want  to  drink  of  it,  too,"  said  Norman 
Lewis.  He  knelt  by  the  narrow  shelf,  and 
touched  his  lips  reverently  to  the  stream  that  had 
assuaged  the  agony  of  those  alien  lips,  long  since 
turned  to  the  common  dust ;  he  drank  where 
criminals  and  outcasts,  in  sad  succession,  had 
quenched  their  thirst,  years  before  he  or  his 
father  had  been  born.  As  he  knelt,  it  seemed  no 
fiction  of  an  overwrought  imagination  that  Esther 
Beaulieu  was  kneeling  by  his  side,  tasting  with 
him,  as  in  a  mystic  betrothal,  this  draught  made 
sacred  by  the  memory  of  immemorial  suffering 
and  sin.  Together  they  knelt,  —  it  seemed  to 
him,  —  in  a  moment  they  would  rise  together,  and 


374  THE  PLATED   CITY 

look  into  each  other's  eyes,  one  forever  more. 
Let  the  shadow  of  the  unknown  past  darken  their 
future  as  it  might,  it  was  enough  that  they  lived 
and  loved ! 

Silently  the  brown-bearded  man  rose  to  his  feet. 
The  countryman  was  staring  at  him. 

"Want  some  copper  ore  to  carry  home  with 
you?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  can  remember  the  place  without  that,"  said 
Lewis,  holding  his  candle  close  to  his  watch.  "  I 
want  to  go  now ;  I  can't  miss  my  train." 

"You  city  fellows  are  terrible  rushed,  ain't 
you  ?  "  said  the  guide,  sympathetically.  "  Some 
folks,  now,  want  to  stay  down  here  all  day. 
Well,  I  suppose  we'll  be  moving  on,  then,  if  you 
say  so.  Sure  you  don't  want  any  copper  ore  ?  " 

Lewis's  host  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  top  of 
the  shaft.  "What  did  you  think  of  it,  Mr. 
Lewis  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Wuth  seein',  eh  ?  Glad 
you  went  down  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lewis,  inhaling  a  great  breath  of 
the  warm,  sunlit  air.  "  I'm  very  glad  I  went 
down.  Will  you  drive  me  to  Granby  depot  ?  " 

The  train  bore  him  down  the  Valley  to  Barton- 
vale,  in  the  summer  dusk.  Once  only  did  he  have 
a  moment  of  wavering,  and  then  it  was  not  for 
his  own  sake,  but  for  hers.  Granted  that  she 
loved  him,  was  he  not  about  to  doom  her  to  a 
life-long  unhappiness,  when  she  realized  the  social 
ostracism  she  would  surely  bring  upon  him  ?  He 


THE  PLATED    CITY  375 

knew  the  Plated  City  through  and  through,  he 
thought ;  he  knew  it  would  not  pardon  him.  It 
would  never  receive  her  :  yet  their  bread  depended 
upon  his  remaining  here,  where  his  professional 
foothold  had  been  slowly  won.  They  must  stay 
in  Bartonvale,  come  what  would.  Would  all  the 
adoration  he  could  give  her  shelter  her  from  the 
consciousness  of  having  brought  upon  her  hus 
band  the  ban  with  which  she  herself  had  grown 
bitterly  familiar  ? 

But  he  shut  his  thin  lips,  and  held  his  head 
high.  His  pulses  were  running  away  with  him 
now,  and  he  knew  it,  and  did  not  care.  He  could 
have  lashed  them,  in  very  joy  of  danger.  In  the 
black  depths  of  old  Newgate  he  had  already  faced 
the  worst  and  conquered.  He  was  taking  the 
chances  now,  and  his  long  self-repression,  the 
gravity  veined  with  irony,  which  early  respon 
sibilities  had  developed  in  him,  was  swept  away 
as  by  an  incoming  tide.  The  passion  for  life,  for 
joys,  raptures,  ventures,  surged  through  his  veins. 
Dangerously,  recklessly,  rocked  the  express,  as  it 
reeled  down  grade  toward  Bartonvale  around  the 
curves  of  the  Valley  road,  but  it  whirled  none  too 
fast  for  the  brown-bearded,  gentle-faced  lawyer, 
who  at  thirty-five  had  made  up  his  mind  to  defy 
his  little  world. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  sure.  James  Atwood 
would  stand  by  him.  The  chivalrous  old  gentle 
man  would  like  him  all  the  better  for  flinging 


376  THE  PLATED   CITY 

down  a  challenge  to  the  Plated  City.  And  pos 
sibly  —  it  flashed  upon  him  —  there  need  be  no 
challenge  :  he  might  win  without  it.  Dr.  Atwood, 
if  he  had  kept  his  word,  had  already  told  her  the 
contents  of  Everett's  letters.  It  might  well  be 
that  they  would  prove  her  mother  as  blue-blooded 
as  even  Mrs.  Gascoigne  could  wish.  However 
dark  the  stain  that  had  rested  upon  her,  she 
might  still  have  been  of  unmixed  race.  He  had 
resolved  to  face  the  worst ;  but  how  if  there 
might  be  no  worst?  —  Why  was  the  train  so 
slow  ? 

The  engine  whistled  at  the  River  Street  cross 
ing.  Lewis  made  his  way  to  the  platform.  In 
fifteen  minutes  he  meant  to  be  ringing  at  Dr.  At- 
wood's  door.  Swinging  himself  off  the  train  be 
fore  it  reached  a  standstill,  he  hurried  up  an  alley 
to  the  Bank  block.  As  he  entered  the  hallway, 
feeling  in  his  pockets  for  his  keys,  he  discovered 
the  glow  of  the  janitor's  pipe  upon  the  lowest 
stair. 

"  Hullo,  Benton,"  he  called.  "  Has  anybody 
been  looking  for  me  ? " 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Lewis,"  said  the  man, 
taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  peering  at 
him  in  the  dusk.  "  Yes,  two  or  three  folks.  Kind 
o'  sudden  about  Jim  Atwood,  wan't  it !  " 


THE  PLATED   CITY  377 


XXI 

Two  minutes  were  spent  in  hurried  question 
ings,  and  Lewis  hastened  upstairs.  "At  seven 
this  morning  !  "  he  exclaimed  to  himself  as  he 
unlocked  his  door.  "Then  he  cannot  have  told 
her."  A  letter  and  a  telegram  had  been  pushed 
through  the  slit  in  his  door,  but  he  trod  over  them, 
unnoticing,  and  entering  his  bedroom,  lighted  the 
gas  there  and  made  a  hurried  toilet.  He  was  out 
of  his  room  again  in  a  few  minutes,  and  striding 
up  Main  Street.  It  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock,  and 
the  pavement  was  blocked  with  mill  hands,  and 
shrill-voiced  plate-works  girls,  still  out  of  a  job. 
He  crossed  impatiently  to  the  quieter  side  of  the 
street,  turned  the  corner  of  the  Green,  throwing 
an  awestricken  glance  at  the  Thayer  house  as  he 
passed  it,  and  climbed  the  Hill.  He  met  no  one 
who  recognized  him.  The  crest  of  the  Hill  was 
as  silent  as  death  itself  ;  the  crunching  of  his  feet 
on  the  gravel  sounded  loud  as  he  entered  the 
shadow  of  the  Atwood  pines.  There  was  crape 
on  the  old  brass  door-knocker,  but  he  struck  it 
sharply,  nevertheless.  Life  counts  for  more  than 
death,  thought  Norman  Lewis. 

One  of  the  neighbors,  a  plain  motherly  looking 
wife  of  a  lucky  speculator,  opened  the  door. 


THE  PLATED   CITY 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Lewis  !  "  she  said.  "Come  in. 
They  have  been  trying  to  find  you  to-day.  Wasn't 
it  sudden  ?  " 

"Very,"  replied  Lewis.  "May  I  see  Miss 
Beaulieu  ? "  The  matron  raised  her  eyebrows 
ever  so  little. 

"  She  has  gone  to  her  room.  I'll  tell  her  you 
are  here.  Poor  girl,  she  has  lost  the  only  friend 
she  had  in  the  world.  I  said  to  my  husband,  '  I 
am  going  over  to  Dr.  Atwood's  to  stay  to-night. 
It  isn't  right  to  let  that  poor  thing  stay  there 
alone.'" 

She  led  Lewis  down  the  hall  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  he  gave  her  his  card.  This  formality 
seemed  to  embarrass  her  ;  Lewis  did  not  meet 
the  keen  glance  she  threw  at  him,  and  she  went 
upstairs  wondering  what  the  lawyer  could  want 
of  Esther  Beaulieu. 

She  was  gone  several  minutes.  When  she 
returned,  she  handed  him  back  the  card.  "  Not 
to-night,  please,"  was  pencilled  upon  it. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  then,"  said  Lewis,  bow 
ing  gravely.  "  Will  you  tell  her  ? "  He  mur 
mured  confusedly  something  about  the  matron's 
kindness  —  asked  if  he  might  be  of  any  service 
—  and  was  gone. 

Once  outside  the  house,  he  wondered  why  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  some  one  might  be 
there.  He  had  counted  upon  seeing  Esther  alone. 
Suppose  she  had  come  down  while  Mrs.  Foley  was 


THE  PLATED   CITY  379 

in  the  room  ;  what  could  he  have  said  to  her  ? 
There  was  but  one  thing  he  had  come  to  say. 
Any  other  words  would  have  been  empty. 

Curiously  enough,  it  never  entered  his  mind 
that  the  girl  might  refuse  him.  So  sure  was  he 
now  of  his  own  heart,  that  he  did  not  stop  to 
reflect  that  she  had  never  betrayed  to  him  what 
might  have  been  in  hers.  She  had  given  him  no 
sign,  save  possibly  that  one  delicious  glance,  which 
after  all  had  in  it  scarcely  more  than  comrade 
ship.  Yet  as  Lewis  neared  the  Mattawanset 
Club,  on  his  way  down  the  Hill,  he  found  him 
self  saying,  "  To-morrow  !  To-morrow  Esther 
and  I  will  be  facing  the  Plated  City  together  !  " 
And  so  high  was  his  courage  at  that  moment  that 
the  time  until  the  morrow  seemed  long. 

He  halted  in  front  of  the  Club,  and  then 
mounted  the  steps  slowly.  The  evening  would 
pass  more  quickly  here  than  down  in  the  lonely 
Bank  block,  and  twenty-four  hours  hence,  he 
fancied  to  himself,  his  Mattawanset  friends  might 
already  be  looking  askance  at  him,  as  in  some 
way  knowing  the  defiant  step  he  would  then 
have  taken.  This  was  his  last  night,  was  it  not, 
of  unspoiled  companionship  with  the  men  of  his 
own  choice  ?  Yet  he  felt  something  like  a  traitor 
as  he  paused  at  the  pool-room  door,  and  looked 
in.  The  room  was  crowded  with  men  in  shirt 
sleeves,  cigars  between  their  teeth,  bending  over 
the  green  tables  for  a  shot,  or  chatting  idly  as 


380  THE  PLATED   CITY 

they  chalked  their  cues.  No  one  happened  to 
notice  him,  and  he  felt  the  imaginary  gulf  deep 
ening  between  himself  and  these  men  of  the  Hill. 
Would  they  miss  him  so  very  much,  after  all  ? 

" '  I  care  as  little  for  Lord  James  Douglas 
As  Lord  James  Douglas  cares  for  me,'  " 

he  murmured,  with  a  half -smile,  and  for  one  in 
stant  he  found  himself  wondering,  with  a  cynical 
curiosity,  what  Bartonvale  would  say  to  his  love 
affair  if  he  were  a  rich  man  instead  of  a  poor  one. 
"  If  I  had  a  million,"  he  reflected,  conscious  that 
his  lip  was  curling,  "they  would  accept  anything 
I  chose  to  tell  them  about  Esther  Beaulieu.  She 
would  be  a  patroness  here  in  five  years  more."  He 
laughed  silently  at  his  own  fancy,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  took  a  long  look  at  the  smoky,  noisy, 
essentially  masculine  scene  before  him,  and  turned 
away.  It  was  like  bidding  adieu,  —  but  it  moved 
him  less  than  he  had  thought. 

As  he  sauntered  through  the  card-room,  he  was 
hailed  by  three  members  of  the  Bartonvale  Board 
of  Trade,  who  were  laboriously  drafting  appro 
priate  resolutions  upon  the  decease  of  Dr.  James 
At  wood.  At  their  request  he  ran  his  eye  over 
the  result  of  their  labors.  The  stock  phrases 
jarred  upon  him,  but  he  contented  himself  with 
pencilling  a  couple  of  grammatical  changes,  and 
handed  the  paper  back  without  comment.  Phrase- 
making  was  not  the  chief  virtue  of  the  Bar- 


THE  PLATED   CITY  381 

tonvale  Board  of  Trade.  Lewis  declined  some 
whiskey  and  water,  and  left  the  trio  to  complete 
their  copying.  The  Mattawanset  Club  was  prov 
ing  less  satisfactory  to-night  than  he  had  hoped. 

At  the  tiny  writing-desk  in  the  reading-room 
he  discovered  the  Rev.  Whitesyde  Trellys,  exam 
ining,  with  apparent  satisfaction,  the  pages  of  a 
letter  he  had  just  composed.  The  rector  ad 
dressed  his  envelope,  rang  for  some  sealing- 
wax,  —  he  had  had  scruples,  ever  since  his  year 
in  Oxford,  about  the  propriety  of  sticking  an 
envelope  together  in  the  ordinary  fashion,  —  and 
then  perceived  that  Norman  Lewis  was  watching 
him.  They  had  not  met  since  the  rector  had  read 
the  service  at  Tom  Beaulieu's  funeral.  Trellys 
rose  and  crossed  the  room  toward  the  lawyer. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lewis?"  he  said,  in  his 
fatigued  voice.  "  Can  you  tell  me  when  Mr. 
Kennedy  is  expected  home  ?  " 

"  They  have  already  started  East,  I  suppose," 
Lewis  replied.  "  At  least,  the  janitor  of  the  Bank 
block  said  so.  I  have  been  out  of  town  all  day." 

"Dr.  Atwood's  death  was  very  sudden,"  re 
turned  the  rector. 

Lewis  assented. 

"I  suppose,  as  his  lawyer,  you  have  some  idea 
as  to  the  disposition  he  made  of  his  property  ?  I 
hope  there  will  be  something  for  public  purposes. 
Distinctly  religious  causes,  you  know,  were  not 
so  near  to  his  heart." 


382  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Possibly  not,"  remarked  the  lawyer,  indif 
ferently.  "I  presume  his  executors  will  make 
public  whatever  the  public  ought  to  know."  He 
picked  up  a  magazine  and  began  to  turn  the 
pages. 

"There  is  a  rumor  on  Main  Street,"  said  the 
rector,  "  that  he  left  all  his  property  to  Miss 
Beaulieu." 

Lewis  dropped  his  magazine.  "  You  may  con 
tradict  that,"  said  he,  sharply.  "That  story  is 
purely  without  foundation." 

Trellys  looked  disappointed.  J'  I  didn't  know 
but  she  might  be  inclined  —  if  the  rumor  were 
true  —  to  help  us  in  building  our  new  church,"  he 
explained,  with  a  sort  of  embarrassed  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  were  burned  out,"  smiled  the  lawyer. 
"I  had  forgotten." 

"  But  I  have  hopes  of  Mrs.  Gascoigne,"  pur 
sued  the  rector  of  St.  Asaph's,  eagerly.  "I've 
just  been  writing  her.  She  expects  to  return  in 
November.  I  think  she  has  always  felt  drawn  to 
our  service,  though  she  never  liked  the  location 
of  the  chapel.  But  her  daughters  have  just  been 
confirmed,  she  writes  me,  confirmed  by  the  Bishop 
of  Duxminster,  and  they're  going  to  his  country 
house  as  soon  as  the  London  season  is  over.  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  know." 

"  Very  interesting,  I'm  sure,"  said  Lewis.  "  It 
certainly  looks  as  if  you  might  count  upon  Mrs. 
Gascoigne." 


TUE  PLATED   CITY  383 

"  In  fact/'  nodded  the  rector,  "  that  is  why  I 
asked  about  Mr.  Kennedy.  He  drew  some  charm 
ing  plans  for  me  once,  —  we  have  a  small  Church 
Building  Fund,  you  know, — but  I  had  to  defer 
the  matter.  But  now  that  we  must  have  a  new 
edifice  in  any  case  —  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Lewis.  "  I  remember  the  plans 
very  well.  I  wish  you  good  luck,  Trellys." 

He  took  up  the  magazine  again.  For  a  moment 
the  rector  followed  his  example,  turning  idly  the 
pages  of  an  English  review  which  he  had  had 
placed  upon  the  subscription  list  of  the  Club. 
Then  Trellys,  being  in  too  friendly  a  mood  for 
silence,  remarked  in  a  low  tone,  without  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  review  :  — 

"  The  Doctor's  death  leaves  Miss  Beaulieu  in  a 
very  singular  position,  then,  does  it  not  ?  Think 
of  it !  She  is  what  would  be  called  a  lovely  girl 
—  in  —  in  other  circumstances.  She  is  educated 
altogether  beyond  what  one  would  expect  —  she 
would  be  fitted  for  any  social  position,  almost,  — 
she  is  interested  in  the  Church,  —  and  yet  — 
Why,  think  of  it !  If  we  could  only  regard  those 
race  differences  in  a  more  Christian  way  —  if  we 
had  more  ideality  — "  He  paused,  helplessly. 
"  Really,"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  up  at  Lewis, 
"she  moves  my  sympathy." 

Norman  Lewis  flung  back  his  head.  "  She  need 
not  ! "  he  flashed  out  in  a  voice  which  save  for  its 
low  intensity  was  like  the  voice  of  fierce  old  James 


384  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Atwood  himself.  "  You'd  better  keep  your  sym 
pathy  !  " 

The  rector  stared. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Trellys,"  said  Lewis,  re 
covering  control  of  himself,  "I  beg  your  pardon." 
And  thereupon  he  took  his  hat  and  walked  out  of 
the  Mattawanset  Club. 

His  slender  shoulders  were  very  straight,  and 
the  sensitive  lips  were  set  combatively,  as  he 
strode  down  High  Street.  The  lonely  den  at 
the  Bank  block  was  better,  after  all,  than  the 
noise  of  the  pool-room  or  Trellys's  twaddle  about 
"ideality."  Yet  he  was  glad  he  had  stopped  at 
the  Club.  Renunciation  of  the  Hill  seemed  easier 
for  the  few  minutes  he  had  spent  inside.  Their 
world  was  not  his  world  ;  it  had  never  been  his 
world ;  there  need  be  no  pretences,  on  either  side, 
from  this  time  on.  If  he  might  still  keep  his 
clients,  that  was  all  he  wished.  Socially,  the 
Hill  might  do  with  him  as  it  pleased.  A  chance 
to  earn  bread  for  the  woman  he  loved  was  all 
that  Norman  Lewis  asked  of  Bartonvale. 

Striking  a  match  as  he  entered  his  room,  he 
discovered  a  telegram  and  a  letter  upon  the  floor. 
He  lighted  the  gas,  and  picked  them  up  indif 
ferently.  The  telegram  was  dated  at  San  Fran 
cisco,  that  afternoon.  It  read  :  — 

'•'-Hang  to  Irrigation  stock  like  grim  death. 
Worth  200  now.  Congratulations.  Have  written. 

"  CHAIG  KENNEDY." 


THE  PLATED   CITY  385 

"  He  must  have  sent  that  just  before  Sally  got 
the  news,"  was  Lewis's  first  thought.  And  at 
the  idea  that  some  enthusiast  —  perhaps  his  own 
father  —  had  been  turning  Craig's  head  with  talk 
about  the  Lewis  Land  and  Irrigation  Company,  the 
lawyer  smiled  ironically.  George  W.  Lewis  had 
sent  him  messages  like  that  before.  Seeing  that 
his  letter  was  also  from  San  Francisco,  however, 
he  tore  it  open,  conscious  of  a  slight  quickening 
of  the  pulse.  It  was  a  long,  type-written  letter : 
he  glanced  through  it  hastily,  then  read  it  slowly, 
changing  color  as  he  read.  He  flung  it  down, 
and  crossing  the  room,  threw  open  the  balcony 
door,  and  leaned  there  in  the  breeze,  pressing 
his  fingers  to  his  temples.  The  rush  of  blood 
to  his  brain  had  made  him  faint.  He  sat  down 
when  he  came  back  to  the  desk,  and  studied  the 
letter  line  by  line,  the  veins  still  standing  out 
upon  his  white,  high  temples. 

The  writer  was  a  cautious  San  Francisco  lawyer 
whom  Lewis  had  once  employed,  at  a  heavy  cost, 
to  investigate  the  validity  of  the  land  titles  which 
his  father  had  secured.  He  wrote  now  to  say  that 
he  and  a  few  other  gentlemen  had  satisfied  them 
selves  that  owing  to  a  manifest  blunder  in  a  pre 
vious  survey,  Mr.  George  W.  Lewis's  irrigation 
scheme  was  not  so  visionary  as  it  had  appeared. 
In  fact,  as  the  titles  were  good  beyond  question, 
and  the  engineering  difficulties  had  been  solved, 
there  was  no  reason  why  the  stock  of  the  Lewis 
2o 


386  THE  PLATED   CITY 

Land  and  Irrigation  Company  should  not  deserve 
the  attention  of  investors.  Understanding  that  Mr. 
Norman  Lewis  held  the  majority  of  it,  he  wished 
to  inquire  whether  it  were  for  sale.  He  would 
take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  Mr.  Lewis,  Senior, 
had  undoubtedly  too  large  ideas  about  the  future 
of  the  Company,  and  had  probably  already  advised 
his  son  to  hold  out  for  higher  figures  than  there 
was  any  likelihood  of  the  stock  ever  reaching.  If 
he  wished  to  dispose  of  any  or  all  of  it  at  a  hun 
dred  and  ten,  however,  the  San  Francisco  gentle 
men  above  mentioned  were  ready  to  take  it  off  his 
hands.  Would  he  kindly  telegraph  reply  ? 

"At  a  hundred  and  ten?"  repeated  Lewis, 
mechanically.  "  A  hundred  and  ten  ? "  He 
reached  down  to  the  lower  drawer  of  his  desk,  and 
picked  out  a  dusty  bundle  of  certificates.  He  had 
never  even  taken  the  precaution  to  put  them  in  his 
safe.  Glancing  at  the  memorandum  pencilled  upon 
the  outside,  he  made  a  rapid  nervous  calculation, 
and  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  queer  cry.  At  a 
hundred  and  ten,  that  bundle  was  worth  a  quarter 
of  a  million  !  The  letter  was  six  days  old.  Craig's 
telegram  had  said  "  Two  hundred  now." 

The  brown-bearded  man  paced  the  room,  hour 
after  hour.  In  the  rush  of  sensations  that  passed 
over  him,  mingled  of  surprise,  wonder,  gratitude, 
—  a  ludicrous  sense  of  the  fact  that  he,  of  all  the 
men  in  the  Plated  City,  should  come  into  a  fortune, 


THE  PLATED   CITY  387 

was  not  the  least.  He,  the  railer  against  silver- 
plated  harnesses,  and  nickle-plated  bath-tubs,  and 
architectural  afterthoughts;  he,  who  was  still 
wearing  his  last  summer's  suit,  and  who  had  gone 
into  debt  to  buy  a  wedding  present  for  Sally 
Thayer !  He  laughed  aloud  —  in  the  hushed  June 
midnight  —  at  the  grotesqueness  of  it  all, — and 
then  his  laugh  changed  to  a  strange  pride.  That 
afternoon,  believing  himself  a  poor  man,  he  had  in 
the  depths  of  Old  Newgate  cast  in  his  lot  with 
those  whom  the  rich  ones  of  the  earth  despise. 
He  had  resolved  to  fling  down  the  challenge. 
With  the  woman  he  loved  by  his  side,  he  was 
about  to  face  the  Plated  City,  however  unequal, 
however  desperate  the  conflict  might  have  proved. 
And  now,  thanks  to  the  cunning  brain  of  a  father 
whose  schemes  had  for  years  been  to  the  son  a  bit 
ter  burden,  he  was  free  of  the  Plated  City  in  a 
moment.  No  bird  whose  shadow  flecked  the  crest 
of  the  Hill  for  an  instant,  as  it  winged  its  way  up 
or  down  the  Valley,  was  more  absolutely  unbound 
to  linger  in  Bartonvale  than  he.  He  could  go 
where  he  liked, — where  Esther  liked,  —  and  with 
that  thought,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  known 
he  loved  her,  the  fear  that  she  might  refuse  him 
chilled  his  heart.  Why  should  she  refuse  him? 
He  could  not  say,  but  the  suddenly  realized  dread 
of  it  spoiled  for  an  hour  his  new  dreams.  But 
they  reasserted  themselves  as  the  short  summer 
night  slipped  by,  and  the  dawn  discovered  him 


388  THE  PLATED   CITY 

restlessly  turning  over  his  photographs  ;  fancying 
himself  —  and  her  —  on  the  Nile  —  in  Sicily  — 
in  Southern  Spain — along  the  Riviera. 

****** 

The  grass  was  still  wet  on  the  lawn  of  the 
Atwood  place  when  he  found  himself  once  more 
at  the  crape-hung  door.  One  of  the  Welsh  ser 
vants  answered  his  ring.  Could  he  see  Miss 
Beaulieu  ?  He  stood  where  he  could  watch  her 
come  slowly  into  sight  down  the  narrow  staircase, 
the  tall  black-clothed  figure  swaying  lightly  as  a 
flower,  a  startled  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  saw  how 
intently  he  was  regarding  her. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  sitting-room?"  she 
asked,  half  turning  down  the  hall. 

"Not  now.  Let  us  go  out  doors.  You  have 
had  too  much  sorrow  in  this  house." 

"Out  doors?"  she  repeated,  but  she  followed 
him  down  the  porch,  and  only  hesitated  when  he 
seemed  about  to  cross  the  lawn. 

He  turned  to  her.  "Do  you  mind?"  he  said. 
"There  is  a  seat  there  above  the  cliff.  It  must 
be  so  gloomy  for  you  in  the  house,  to-day,  and 
there  is  something  I  wish  to  tell  you." 

There  was  a  quiet  firmness  in  his  tone,  a  mas 
terfulness  in  the  carriage  of  his  head  and  shoul 
ders,  that  made  her  obey.  They  crossed  the 
sward  in  silence,  and  reached  the  rustic  seat.  It 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  house ;  at  their  feet  lay 
Main  Street  and  the  Flats.  At  a  motion  from 


THE  PLATED   CITY  389 

Lewis,  the  girl  seated  herself.  He  remained 
standing,  gazing  down  at  the  Plated  City  with 
a  singular  smile. 

"You  feel  above  it  all  here,  don't  you!"  he 
exclaimed.  She  made  no  reply.  "Did  you  talk 
with  Dr.  Atwood  yesterday  morning  before  he 
drove  down  town?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone. 

"We  breakfasted  together." 

"  But  he  told  you  nothing,  —  nothing  in  par 
ticular  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 
The  venture  was  his  then,  even  as  he  had  half 
wished,  the  day  before ;  the  truth  about  her 
parentage  lay  hidden  in  that  tiny  pile  of  ashes. 

"  Then  I  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,"  he  said 
steadily;  "about  your  brother  and  your  mother." 
She  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"  But  I  have  something  else  to  tell  you  first," 
he  went  on,  his  eyes  fastened  upon  her  face.  "  I 
love  you  —  Esther  Beaulieu  —  I  love  you." 

For  a  second  he  saw  her  eyes  dilate,  then  she 
covered  her  face,  with  a  sort  of  sob.  He  tried  to 
take  her  hands. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  whispered  ;  "  I  want  you  to  be 
my  wife.  Will  you  ?  " 

She  trembled  violently,  but  as  she  lifted  her  face 
toward  him,  the  lines  of  it  were  superbly  firm. 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded.     Sickening  dread 


390  THE  PLATED   CITY 

took  possession  of  him,  yet  the  answer  he  most 
dreaded  did  not  come. 

"I  have  no  right,"  she  said,  her  luminous, 
dusky  eyes  gazing  full  into  his.  "  It  would  be 
doing  you  a  wrong.  Last  night  if  you  had  asked 
me  I  might  not  have  been  strong  enough  to  tell 
you  so.  I  was  so  alone,  so  afraid.  I  did  not 
dare  see  you —  I  was  glad  when  you  went  away. 
But  this  morning  I  am  strong.  You  have  been 
very  kind  to  me,  Mr.  Norman  Lewis, — -and  so  I 
have  told  you  the  truth." 

"  But  you  love  me  then  !  "  he  cried. 

"  If  I  did,"  said  the  girl,  rising  in  almost  uncon 
trollable  excitement,  "would  I  be  willing  to  spoil 
your  life  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  not  learned 
something  since  I  came  to  Bartonvale  ?  These 
people  hate  me  —  because  of  my  mother.  Do  you 
not  know  that  they  would  hate  you  too,  if  —  if  —  " 
She  stood  panting,  the  rich  color  suffusing  her 
cheeks,  rising  to  her  temples. 

"  Listen  !  "  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  that  I,  too, 
do  not  know  Bartonvale  ?  When  I  came  here  last 
night  to  ask  you  to  marry  me,  I  was  a  poor  man. 
I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  If  you  would  only  let 
me  stand  with  you,  that  was  all  I  asked.  Barton- 
vale  would  have  given  us  air  and  water  and  bread 
and  a  roof -tree.  Do  you  think  your  loving  me 
would  spoil  my  life?"  He  paused  passionately 
and  then  went  on.  "  But  this  morning  I  find  that 
I  am  rich  —  very  rich — do  you  understand?  I 


THE  PLATED   CITY  391 

can  leave  Bartonvale  to-morrow,  never  to  return. 
We  can  live  wherever  in  the  world  you  please ;  in 
France,  if  you  like  —  your  father's  home  —  or  any 
where.  New  England  isn't  the  world,  thank  God  ! 
Will  you  come  ?  " 

The  girl  gave  a  long,  troubled  look  at  the  slen 
der-bodied  man  with  the  flashing,  honest  eyes. 
But  at  last  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Mr.  Lewis,"  she  said  gravely,  her  eyes  falling 
to  the  ground,  "  you  are  a  brave  gentleman,  and  I 
can  never  honor  you  enough.  Will  you  answer 
me  one  question  ?  You  say  you  have  something 
to  tell  me  about  my  mother.  Was  she  white?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied  hoarsely,  after  a 
long  silence.  "  I  think  so,  but  I  do  not  know." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  That  is  why  it  would 
not  be  right  for  me  to  marry  you.  Wait !  I  be 
lieve  you  when  you  tell  me  you  love  me.  But  the 
time  would  arrive  —  you  could  not  help  it  —  when 
this  would  come  between  us.  You  would  not  love 
me  any  more.  It  would  not  be  your  fault ;  it 
would  not  be  any  one's  fault ;  it  is  the  way  things 
are,  that  is  all.  —  And  now  I  am  going  back  to  the 
house.  I  shall — "a  curious  girlish  quaver  came 
into  her  woman's  voice  —  "always  be  grateful," 

"  One  moment ! "  cried  Norman  Lewis,  with  a 
gesture  that  arrested  her.  "  If  you  will  look  me 
in  the  eyes,  Esther  Beaulieu,  and  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  love  ine,  I  will  let  you  go.  But  you  will 
not  —  see  !  you  cannot.  I  knew  it.  You  dare 


392  THE  PLATED  CITY 

not !  You  love  me  !  And  I  will  not  let  you  go. 
Listen !  Yesterday  I  knelt  in  a  cavern,  deep 
under  ground,  where  in  bygone  years  white  men 
and  black  men  suffered  in  a  common  doom.  It 
was  like  being  in  another  world  ;  it  was  like  hell. 
But  I  fancied  that  you  were  there  with  me,  Esther, 
that  hand  in  hand  we  knelt  and  tasted  the  bitterest 
draught  that  human  cruelty  could  offer,  and  it  was 
sweet  to  our  lips,  because  we  loved.  We  loved 
each  other,  dear,  and  the  world  might  do  with  us 
as  it  would  !  " 

There  was  fire  in  his  low,  rapid  voice — fire  in 
his  pleading  face  —  she  had  no  longer  strength  to 
avoid  his  gaze  —  she  raised  her  great  eyes  slowly, 
tremblingly,  wonderingly. 

"  That  was  yesterday,"  he  cried,  "  and  you  were 
with  me  only  as  in  a  dream,  and  yet,  whatever 
came,  I  knew  we  should  be  stronger  than  the 
world.  To-day  it  is  no  dream.  We  touch  each 
other  —  see?"  He  caught  both  her  hands.  "We 
shall  win  !  We  shall  win  !  Look  at  me  —  yes, 
deep  —  deep  as  you  like.  I  am  thirty-five  years 
old,  Esther,  and  it  is  only  yesterday  that  I  began 
to  live.  You  will  not  take  from  me  the  one 
chance  ?  I  have  waited  for  happiness  so  long  ; 
you  will  not  withhold  it  ?  Oh,  you  cannot !  You 
will  not !  You  love  me,  Esther  Beaulieu  ;  I  see  it 
in  your  eyes.  Come."  And  indeed  so  marvellous 
were  the  girl's  eyes,  at  that  instant,  that  he  really 
ought  not  to  have  closed  them  with  his  kisses. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  393 


EPILOGUES  are  long  since  out  of  fashion,  but  I 
am  going  to  write  one,  nevertheless.  Some  two 
years  after  Dr.  Atwood's  death,  I  happened  to  be 
in  Bar  ton  vale  for  a  few  hours,  and  had  the  honor 
of  lunching  with  Mrs.  Gascoigne.  The  only  other 
guest  was  Whitesyde  Trellys,  who  sat  between 
Mrs.  Gascoigne's  daughters,  opposite  the  hostess. 
I  gathered  from  the  conversation  that  Kennedy's 
Norman  church  was  well  under  way,  and  then 
something  was  said  about  the  rectory. 

"  The  rectory  ?  "  I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  at 
which  the  younger  daughter  —  the  one  with  the 
white  eyebrows  —  chose  to  blush,  and  Trellys 
played  nervously  with  his  glass. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  put  in  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  coming  to  the 
rescue,  "Julietta  and  Mr.  Trellys  —  ahem  —  it  is 
not  announced  —  but  as  you  are  an  old  friend  —  " 

I  bowed  my  congratulations  to  the  pair.  .  By 
and  by,  when  the  young  people  had  again  become 
engrossed  in  the  rectory,  Mrs.  Gascoigne  said  to 
me,  in  a  lowered  voice  :  — 

"You  saw  the  Lewises  last  spring,  I  hear." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "at  Mentone." 


394  THE  PLATED   CITY 

"  Was  she  received  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Gascoigne, 
in  a  sepulchral  tone. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I.  "  The  afternoon  I  saw 
her,  she  was  receiving." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Norman  rented  a  place  there  for  Febru 
ary  and  March,  and  people  used  to  stroll  over  from 
the  hotel  for  tea." 

"  That  interests  me.  What  sort  of  people  ?  " 
demanded  Mrs.  Gascoigne. 

"  Rather  a  miscellaneous  lot,  the  day  I  was 
there.  The  lions  were  Alphonse  Daudet  and  his 
wife.  Mrs.  Lewis  was  amusing  Daudet  with  some 
story  about  the  Bartonvale  Library.  I  didn't 
catch  it.  There  were  some  other  literary  people, 
I  believe,  and  a  couple  of  French  artists,  and  an 
Irish  peer,  and  some  Englishmen,  of  course. 
Why,  yes,  there  was  where  I  met  the  Bishop 
of  Duxminster ;  he  seemed  to  admire  Mrs.  Lewis 
immensely.  And  by  the  way,  he  said  he  knew 
you." 

"  The  Bishop  of  Duxminster  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Gascoigne.  "  I  count  him  as  one  of  my  dearest 
friends,  though  we  did  not  meet  until  our  second 
London  season.  It  was  he  that  confirmed  my 
daughters.  We  hope  to  have  him  over  here, 
did  you  know  it,  for  the  dedication  of  our 
church  ?  " 

I  had  not  heard  of  it.  For  some  moments  Mrs. 
Gascoigne  nibbled  at  a  radish  in  silence. 


THE  PLATED   CITY  395 

"  Do  you  think  Norman  Lewis  will  ever  come 
back  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  did,  some  day. 
He  told  me  that  he  got  restless  occasionally,  and 
had  half  a  mind  to  come  back  to  Bartonvale  and 
run  once  more  for  the  Legislature.  He's  always 
been  beaten,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  could  never  understand  Mr.  Lewis,"  she 
replied,  disregarding  my  inquiry.  "  I  never  knew 
when  he  was  joking.  It  was  very  embarrassing 
sometimes.  But  I  always  liked  him,  and  I  think 
he  made  a  great  mistake  in  not  explaining  matters 
more,  when  he  married.  The  social  aspect  of  it 
could  have  been  arranged.  If  the  Bishop  of 
Duxminster  knows  her,  why  shouldn't  people 
here  ?  " 

I  made  no  reply. 

"Of  course,"  she  went  on  confidentially,  "Mr. 
Lewis  must  have  known  that  she  was  a  pure 
Creole  on  her  mother's  side  —  romantic,  isn't  it  ! 
—  or  he  never  could  have  married  her.  That 
her  father  was  Pete  Beaulieu  is  unfortunate,  but 
it  can  be  overlooked.  When  all  that  queer  story 
came  out  about  Everett  Atwood  —  before  the 
House  of  Mercy  was  built,  you  know  —  I  said 
to  myself :  Mr.  Lewis  knows  more  about  that 
girl's  ancestry  than  he  tells.  He's  just  angry 
because  the  Hill  people  have  never  taken  her 
up,  and  he  chooses  to  let  them  think  what  they 
please.  They  have  thought  all  sorts  of  things, 


396  THE  PLATED   CITY 

I  can  tell  you,  but  he  was  too  sensible,  I  know, 
to  run  any  sucli  risk  as  he  seemed  to.  It  was 
very  foolish  of  him  not  to  explain  it  all  to  a  few 
friends  at  the  time.  If  I  had  been  here,  I  would 
have  given  him  some  good  advice.  As  it  is,  with 
out  the  very  best  of  management,  it  will  be  diffi 
cult  for  him  to  introduce  her,  when  he  comes  back, 
in  spite  of  the  position  she  would  naturally  take 
as  —  as  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  man.  Still,  I  think 
it  might  be  arranged.  And  you  really  thought 
her  charming?  " 

"  Very,"  I  confessed. 

We  talked  of  other  matters  for  a  while,  the 
Kennedys  for  instance,  who  had  just  taken  a  shore 
cottage  for  the  summer  on  account  of  the  baby's 
health,  —  a  quite  needless  precaution,  Mrs.  Gas- 
coigne  was  inclined  to  think.  But  my  hostess 
seemed  more  or  less  preoccupied. 

When  I  took  my  leave,  she  carried  me  around 
to  the  side  verandah,  to  see  the  House  of  Mercy, 
whose  noble  roof  towered  above  the  dark  fringe  of 
Atwood  pines.  As  we  turned  away,  she  pointed 
to  a  neighboring  house  on  Summit  Street. 

"When  you  write  Norman  Lewis,"  asked  the 
social  arbiter  of  the  Plated  City,  "  won't  you  tell 
him  there  is  a  delightful  house  for  rent,  close  by 
us  ?  The  rent  is  something  fearful,  I  am  told,  but 
I  suppose  Mr.  Lewis  doesn't  mind  that,  now.  I 
wish  they  would  come  back  in  time  to  meet  the 
Bishop  of  Duxminster.  Don't  you  suppose  they 


THE  PLATED   CITY  397 

could  ?  If  he  likes  Mrs.  Lewis,  —  and  if  you 
do,"  she  was  gracious  enough  to  add,  —  "I  am 
sure  she  must  be  charming.  He  never  makes 
a  mistake,  socially.  And  won't  you  please  say 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis  that  I  want  to  give  them 
a  little  dinner,  when  they  come  ?  " 


Norfonoti  $regs : 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


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